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Ursula Vivian 


Zbc S(0tei‘^fDotbcr 


BY 

ANNIE S. '(swan) 

AUTHOR OF “ALDERSVDE,” “ CARLOWRIE,” “GATES OF EOENy** 
ETC., ETC, 



American Edition.' 


'■jllN 16 1890 


CINCINNATI: 

ORWIsrSTON AND STOWE. 

NEW YORK: 

HUNT AND EATON. 



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I 


I 


CONTENTS. 


CHIP. PAGB 

Ip DREAMSj 

II. The Vivians of the Grange, . • , , 19 

III. Making Ready for the Campaign, , , 33 

IV. A Bitter Hour, 47 

V. Up the Scaur, 58 

VI. The Mystery of Life and Death, , , 70 

VII. Plans and Hopes, 80 

VIII. Shadow and Sunshine, 95 

IX. At St. Michael’s, •••••• 109 

X. On Business ,126 

XI. Anna Trent, .••••«. 139 

XII. Dr. Dunscombe, •••••. 154 

XIII. Of the World, •••#•. 170 

XIV. Conquered 187 

XV. Thanksgiving, .•••••• 197 

XVI. At Allanton Road, • • • • . 208 

XVII. Saint Anna, 218 

XVIII. Not Quite Perfect, 228 

XIX. Christmas at Home, • • • • • 236 

XX. The Crowning Joy, 245 

XXI. Sunrise, ‘ • . *252 

tLL US TRA T/ONS— 

Frontispiece, . • , • »• a 

The Young Writer, ••••••• 117 

Christmas Morning, 123 

I STAYED there . . . WRESTLING FOR THE VICTORY, AND GOT IT, 163 
Havdon Hall, ..... . , 175 

Isabel . . . went to the Piano at once, • • • 183 


AMERICAN EDITION. 


This book is published in America under special con- 
tract with its Edinburgh Publishers, Messrs. Oliphant, 
Anderson & Ferrier. 

The American Publishers have not changed the orig- 
inal orthography. Our neighbo(u)rs across the ocean 
are fond of the diphthong “ou,” and have no “z” in 
their “civilisation;” but this story is none the less in- 
teresting for that. 



URSULA VIVIAN. 

. CHAPTER I. 

DREAMS. 

Misses Warner's establishment for the 
ard and education of young ladies 
,s breaking up for the session. The 
examination had been a brilliant success, the 
pupils having acquitted themselves to their own 
credit and that of their teachers. Many of the 
boarders had left for home in the afternoon of the 
last day of school, but those who had a long 
journey in prospect remained another night, and 
early on the morrow The Elms would be deserted 
by pupils and teachers alike. 

In one of the bedrooms four girls were grouped 
about the window in the fading evening light, 
watching the darkness stealing over the moor, to 



7 


8 


Ursula Vivian. 


envelop in its folds the roofs of Aldborough and 
the spire of its venerable cathedral. 

They were fair specimens of the young woman- 
hood of England — pleasant of face, lithe of figure, 
and glib of tongue, as was evidenced by the inces- 
sant hum of talk which had resounded through 
the room for an hour and more. 

" Well, I wonder when we four shall meet again?” 
said Ursula Vivian, from her perch on the dressing- 
table. 

“In thunder, lightning and in rain,” quoted 
Mary Dunscombe, in her merry way, and hei mis- 
chievous grey eyes glanced up into the grave face 
of the friend she loved above all others. 

In a moment Ursula’s hand was laid on Mary’s 
lips. 

“I will have no nonsense, Mary,” she said 
threateningly. “We must have some serious 
talk to-night, for after to-day we are women, 
remember, and all the frolics of school are done 
with.” 

“Suppose you prove that you are serious by 
getting down off that table,” said Mary, demurely. 
“ I think it is not quite customary for women to sit 
on tables, is it, Isabel ?” 

The young lady appealed to turned from her 


Dreams, 


9 


examination of a travelling costume, and answered, 
languidly. 

“ Ursula will never learn to be proper, Mary. 
When.,she is fifty she will think as little of sitting 
on a table or climbing a tree as she does at this 
moment.’* 

“ Eccentricity is the privilege of genius,” said 
gentle-eyed Anna Trent, looking up from her task 
of arranging her music in her portfolio, ready to 
put into her trunk. 

Isabel Fortescue’s lip curled slightly, whether in 
scorn or amusement it was difficult to tell. She 
was a beautiful girl, and would develop by-and-by 
into a marvellously beautiful woman. Her figure, 
though unformed, was all grace ; her golden head 
was set superbly on a beautiful neck ; her fair, 
aristocratic face, with its violet eyes and exquisite 
mouth, was a study a painter might long to trans- 
fer to canvas. 

Ursula Vivian rolled up a little bullet of paper, 
and tossed it at Anna Trent. 

“Your doubtful compliment has but evoked a 
smile of scorn on our beauty’s face,” she said, with 
good-humoured sarcasm. “ Isabel, do leave your 
everlasting contemplation of cjothes, and talk a 
little while. Let us each tell what we mean 


10 


Ursula Vivian, 


to do, and what use we mean to make of our 
lives” 

Anna Trent laid down her portfolio, and looked 
up with expectant interest. After a minute or 
two Isabel hung up her dress and came over to the 
window, looking slightly bored. 

“You always want something absurd, Ursula,” 
she said. “ Well, go on, we are all waiting to hear 
the programme of your future life.” 

“We will take yours first, Mary,” said Ursula, 
stooping to pull her friend’s black locks as she 
knelt by the open window. 

“Mine!” echoed Mary, her pleasant face rippling 
with amusement. “ Oh, I am hopelessly common- 
place. I shall go home to Market Drayton, I sup- 
pose, to-morrow, and then there will be six weeks* 
delightful romping with the boys before they go 
back to Eton. Then I shall settle down quietly at 
home with papa and mamma, relieve her of half 
the worry of three small females in the jiursery 
and schoolroom. I shall learn to wash, bake, cook, 
and mend and darn, and do sick visiting, as I shall 
need them all when I go to keep house for John. 
He will settle somewhere likely in spring.” 

John was Mary’s elder brother, who had just re- 
ceived his diploma in medicine at Cambridge, and 


Dreams* 


II 


who, after his settlement, would need his sister 
Mary as a housekeeper. 

“I wish I had a brother on shore,” said Anna 
Trent, with a sigh. She belonged to a seafaring 
family, and her two brothers had sailed with their 
sailor-father on his last voyage. 

“When you were speaking, Mary, you ought 
to have said you would go to keep house for 
your brother till he fell in love, and then it 
would be notice to quit for you,” said Isabel 
Fortescue, who appeared to have the very 
knack of showing the unpleasant side of things. 
“Your brother will want you just till he finds 
somebody better.” 

“ Oh, well, that is understood,” said Mary, lifting 
her fearless eyes to Isabel’s face. “When John 
finds a wife no one will give her a warmer welcome 
than I, for John’s choice will be a woman we can 
all love.” 

“ Question,” said Isabel, briefly. 

“ I vote that we expel Isabel from the council,” 
said Ursula. “She’s caught the griffin to-night, 
and she’ll be a bugbear in our midst.” 

The “griffin” was the school-girl phrase for bad 
temper, and it was very frequently applied to 
Isabel Fortescue. 


12 


Ursula Vivian. 


“I demur,” said Mary, “for I am intensely 
anxious to hear what her future life is to be.” 

“Very well, I withdraw the motion,” said Ursula, 
heedless of Isabel’s frown, “at least till we hear 
what she has to say. But first we will sum up 
your ambition in as few words as possible, Mary, 
and we will compare notes after hearing the report 
from the others.” 

“I am not good at summing up, Ursula,” re- 
joined Mary, “ but my ambition amounts to some- 
thing like this. I want to be of use to my father 
and mother, to try to repay them for all they have 
done for me. I want to be a true sister to my 
brothers and sisters, and I want to do as much 
good as I can in the world in a quiet way. And 
perhaps,” she added with a little absurd laugh, “ if 
you want to have the end, I wouldn’t mind having 
a home of my own by-and-by, and a husband 
something like John, and then that the world 
might be a little the better because we had lived 
in it a while. I believe that is all my ambition, 
girls.” 

Ursula saw an expression on Isabel’s face which 
foreboded a few more unpleasant words, which she 
prevented by saying sharply — 

“Thank you, Mary. May we all be as honest. 


Dreams. 


13 


Verdict reserved. Isabel, we are waiting for 
you.” 

“Really, I object to being domineered over in 
this fashion,” said Isabel, petulantly ; “ but I sup- 
pose I must obey as usual. Well, girls. I’m going 
home to Haydon Hall to-morrow to be mamma’s 
companion, to help her to entertain our guests, 
and to go with her into society. I shall have 
nothing in the world to do but enjoy myself. 
That’s all ; and, if you must have it, my ambition 
is to be an ornament to society and to make a 
brilliant marriage.” 

No remark whatsoever followed Isabel’s speech, 
but, at a nod from Ursula, Anna Trent, smiling a 
little, said softly — 

“ I, too, am going home to London to be a com- 
panion to mamma, to comfort her during the 
absence of father and the boys. And as I find 
time I shall go on with my beloved painting. My 
ambition is to be hung in the Academy.” 

A burst of laughter made Anna aware of her 
slip. 

“Of course, you know what I mean,” she said, 
laughing heartily too. “ I hope to have a picture 
in the Academy some day, and then I hope you 
will all come to see it” 


14 


Ursula Vivian, 


“That we will. A triumphal procession of 
revered and adoring friends,” said Ursula. “ Well, 
I suppose it is my turn now. I am going home to 
burn the midnight oil, girls ; to toil day and night 
with my pen until it brings me wealth and fame. 
My ambition is to be the greatest author of my 
time.” 

“ A modest one, truly,” said Isabel, with a little 
laugh. “ As usual, girls, we must yield the palm 
to Ursula. She has outstripped us all.” 

Ursula got down from her perch, and, moving 
over to the window, stood in the shadow, with her 
hair lightly touching Mary’s head. Ursula Vivian 
was not beautiful. Many people called her plain. 
Her figure was angular and bony, her face long 
and thin, her features strongly marked. It was an 
original and striking face, and the constant flash- 
ing changes of her beautiful hazel eyes gave to it 
its chief beauty of expression. Her scraggy brown 
hair, which no brush could induce to lie smoothly, 
was confined carelessly at the back with a knot of 
black velvet ; her dress was worn and shabby to a 
degree, yet a certain dignity of carriage and con- 
scious independence gave to her the appearance of 
a lady, and redeemed her altogether from being 
uninteresting or common-place. In that quiet 


Dreams, 


15 


moment her face was softened into a grave beauti- 
ful tenderness, the outcome of the lovely hopes 
blossoming in her heart. She felt the great power 
stirring within her, and the talent which had 
hitherto found its expression in school-girl rhymes 
and nonsense compositions for the amusement of 
her fellows would henceforth be consecrated to 
nobler ends. She was very young, and life was 
all before her. Her dreams were passing sweet. 
Great yearnings to be good and to do good to her 
fellows through the medium of her pen filled her 
heart that night, and excluded ev^ery thing else. 

The pressure of Mary’s mischievous fingers re- 
called her, and she turned her face slowly towards 
them. 

“Well, girls, I wonder whether we shall all 
reach the height of our ambition, or whether some 
of us will slip on the ladder before we are half-way 
up,” she said, musingly. 

“Yours is the most uphill work, Ursula,” said 
Mary Dunscombe. “ Yours and Anna’s.. Isabel 
and I tread on lower ground.” 

“ Speak for yourself, Mary,” said Isabel with a 
sharp turn of her haughty head, and Mary im- 
mediately asked her pardon with mock humility. 

“Well, we must keep up communication with 


i6 


Ursula Vivian, 


each other,” said Ursula. “ But I fear, Isabel, when 
you are society’s chiefest ornament you will forget 
your humble friends.” 

“Oh no,” said Isabel, with gracious condescen- 
sion. “ I shall remember you, never fear ; and you 
must all come, girls, to Haydon Hall. I am sure 
papa and mamma will be very pleased.” 

Ursula glanced at her thread-bare gown, and, 
meeting Mary’s eye, turned her head swiftly away, 
choking back a laugh. 

“ Thank you, dear Isabel,” said Anna Trent’s 
gentle voice. “ I am sure we will all be glad to 
come. Well, Ursula, it’s half-past nine, and we 
have to be up early. What do you say to bed ? 
Will you come, Isabel ?” 

“ I suppose so,” said Isabel with a yawn. “ Pre- 
cious glad am I this is my last night in the stony 
couch of the Elms. Good-night, Ursula and 
Mary!” 

Then Isabel and Anna, who shared the same 
room, left the others to their own quiet talk. 

Mary Dunscombe rose, and, leaning her hand 
on Ursula’s shoulder, looked into her face. 

“ Ursula, your eyes are wet. What is it ?” 

“I am sorry to leave school, Polly. We have 
had some jolly days here. 1 shall never forget 


Dreams, 


17 


them. You will think of me sometimes when you 
areaway?” 

‘‘Of course I will. Don’t I love you, Ursula, 
better than any girl in the world 

“ I have no sister, and the love I would have 
given to her is all yours, Mary,” said Ursula, with 
sudden, passionate earnestness. “It would break 
my heart to get nothing in return.” Mary crept 
closer to her friend, and there was a little silence. 

“ There is something else saddening me to-night, 
my Mary,’* said Ursula, by-and-by. “I cannot 
tell what, unless it be the thought that we are 
girls no longer, but women entering upon life. I 
wonder how it will be with us, and how it will end. 
Yours will be a sweet and happy life likely, just 
like yourself. What can mine be but a storm ? I 
am such a strange, wild, miserable creature. I am 
sometimes afraid of myself.” 

“Hush, Ursula,” said Mary, touching her lips 
with pleading fingers. “Do not grow bitter to- 
night. Let us be quiet and thoughtful, and mind- 
ful of God. Could we not just kneel down here, 
Ursula, and pray for guidance in the future? We 
have never done it before, but it is the last night.” 

So they knelt down together in the window, and 
the moonlight stealing in upon them unawares 
B 


i8 


Ursula Vivian. 


touched most lovingly these young heads bowed 
reverently before their God. 

Surely the guidance asked would not be denied ; 
surely that prayer would make more smooth the 
path of life; surely it was a sweet and fitting 
beginning to the women’s work which lay before 
theoa. 



CHAPTER II. 

THE VIVIANS OF THE GRANGE. 

HERE had been Vivians in Kessington 
Grange for generations. In the earlier 
days of its existence, the Grange had 
been a goodly heritage, but bit by bit the spend- 
thrift Vivians had squandered their inheritance, 
until at the time of which I write it consisted only 
of the rambling old house, the policy about it, and 
a few fields adjoining, which were let to a neigh- 
bouring farmer. 

The Vivians had ever been idle and careless, as 
well as spendthrift, and their present representa- 
tive, Geoffrey Vivian, Ursula’s father, was no ex- 
ception to the rule. .He married, somewhat late 
in life, a sweet and gentle girl of good family, but 
possessing small fortune, and brought her home to 
the half-ruined Grange. It was a mystery to Kes- 
sington how the Vivians lived, and as the little 

*9 



20 


Ursula Vivian, 


ones arrived one by one the mystery deepened. 
The Squire — as he was called through force of old 
association, the name having long ceased to have 
any substantial meaning — being a Vivian, disdained 
all manner of work. His wife and little ones might 
lack the luxuries and comforts, sometimes even 
the necessaries of life, but his hands must not be 
soiled ; nay, more, he must have his dainty morsel 
at meal times, his faultless linen and gentlemanly 
attire, his dog and gun, his newspapers and 
magazines—in a word, it pleased Geoffrey Vivian 
to live as though the bygone revenues of Kessing- 
ton Grange were still at his disposal. 

Such a course either required money or credit, 
and since the former was not forthcoming, they 
had to suffice themselves with the latter. Kessing- 
ton was very long-suffering with the Vivians. Its 
tradesmen told of almost fabulous accounts run up 
in the squire’s name, but out of respect to the old 
name perhaps, or from compassion for the sweet 
and gentle lady, whose face bore the impress of 
her miserable life, they forbore to prosecute. So 
the accounts ran on, the Vivians sank deeper and 
more inextricably into debt, and Mrs. Vivian 
faded every day. 

There were five sons and one daughter, whose 


The Vivians of the Grange, 


21 


acquaintance you have already made at school in 
Aldborough. The Misses Warner had been friends 
of Geoffrey Vivian’s wife in her girlhood, and for 
the sake of the old love the kind ladies offered to 
educate Ursula for nothing. Mrs. Vivian, while 
feeling her position acutely, could not see her way 
to refuse such an advantage for her one daughter, 
so Ursula went to Aldborough and remained there, 
studying hard and making no end of mischief and 
fun at school, in blissful ignorance of the real state 
of affairs. The Misses Warner, being ladies and 
Christians, did not make their good deeds public. 
The eldest son, a young man of one-and-twenty, 
was engaged in mercantile business in London. 
As he had grown to manhood his keen eyes had 
penetrated all the miserable meanness of his father’s 
pride, and not being ashamed to work even with 
his hands, though he was a Vivian, he had gone off 
to London at sixteen to seek his fortune unaided 
and unfriended, for his father had professed himself 
heartily disgusted with his son’s plebeian notions, 
and had declined to have anything more to do 
with him. But Robert Vivian was made of manly 
stuff, and in spite of all the obstacles which lie in 
the way of a poor and unknown youth in a great 
city, he found his place, and having found it kept 


22 


Ursula Vivian, 


it The mercantile house which had been so kind 
as to engage him without character or recommend- 
ation, except what he carried in his honest face 
and fearless eyes, had had occasion to bless the 
day Robert Vivian entered their employ. He was 
now one of their most trusted servants, and there 
were whisperings among his fellows that the 
Messrs. Grimsby would ere long make him the 
head of the whole concern, they being old men 
now, and anxious to take only a nominal share in 
the work of the firm. 

So much for Robert Vivian. Ursula was four 
years his junior. Next to her came his father’s 
namesake, Geoffrey, a pale, somewhat delicate- 
looking youth, whose one passion was for music, 
whose one aim was its pursuit. 

The hours his brothers devoted to all the games 
and frolics of boyhood were spent by him at 
the spindle-legged piano in the drawing-room, 
where he would grow oblivious of everything, 
and would draw forth even from that miser- 
able apology for an instrument sounds which 
drew tears from those who listened. He had 
taught himself, and he lived but in the hope 
that the happy time would come some day when 
he could go away to the home of music, and 


23 


The Vivians of the Grange, 


study under its greatest masters. That was 
Geoffrey’s dream. 

Very different in all ways from his dreamy-eyed, 
soft-voiced brother Geoffrey was Tom Vivian. 
He was the embodiment of exuberant animal 
spirits, giant strength, and unutterable stupidity. 
At fourteen he could read and write and draw a 
little, nothing more. He was the plague of Kess- 
ington Grammar School, the source of unlimited 
trouble to the masters, his name was before Dr. 
Abbot for misdemeanour six days a week. 

If there was a caricature on the blackboard, a 
live toad in a master’s desk, a pin stuck point up- 
wards on his chair, or some adhesive substance 
placed there by invisible hands, but which was 
warranted to bind the hapless victim firmly to his 
seat, Tom Vivian did it. He never denied any- 
thing; he took his punishment like a hero, pro- 
mised better behaviour, and went and did it again. 
But everybody loved him, and when he had been 
expelled once for some unusually grave mis- 
demeanour a deputation representative of the 
whole school, including the masters, even the one 
on whom the trick had been played, waited on Dr. 
Abbot, praying for a commutation of the sentence. 
Such was Tom Vivian. 


24 


Ursula Vivian, 


The younger two, Charlie and Fred, were ordi- 
nary lads, studious enough during lesson hours 
and wild enough at play. These, then, were the 
relatives with whom Ursula Vivian was to make 
her permanent home, now that school days were past 
, Fully a year had elapsed since she had been 
home before, and she was longing to see them all 
with a great longing. It was nearly a day’s jour- 
ney from Aldborough to Kessington, and Ursula 
arrived at the trim little station just at sunset A 
deputation of four waited her. Needless to say, 
they were the boys. Mr. Vivian was not so in- 
tensely devoted to his daughter that he would take 
a two-mile walk, on a hot summer evening, to 
meet her, and I am bound to say Ursula was not 
disappointed. She was the only passenger by the 
express. So, save for a few grinning officials, the 
Vivians had the station to themselves. Ursula 
kissed her brothers all round, gave Tom, her especial 
favourite, a sisterly hug, then while the porters saw 
after her luggage, the four surveyed their one sister 
with critical eyes. 

“You look just the same Ursula,” said Geoffrey, 
perfectly satisfied. 

“No, you don’t,;. you look ever so much older, 
just like Betty almost,” said Fred. 


The Vivians of the Grange^ 


25 


“Her eyes are nicer’n Betty’s, though, don’t you 
think ?” suggested Charlie. 

“ You are a guy, Ursula/* said Tom, with deci- 
sion. “Your frock’s too short, and your hair’s like 
a mop. You’ll need to make yourself smarter 
before 1 take you through Kessington on my 
arm.” 

Forgetful of her eighteen years and her dignity, 
Ursula administered him a sharp box in the ear, 
and ordered him off to get her bag. 

“ I am certainly obliged to you, boys,” she said^ 
with her sweet ringing laugh. “ Come, Geoff, we 
will lead off. You are the only respectable mem- 
ber of the Vivian community. Tell me about papa 
and mamma.” 

“ Papa’s all right,” said Geoffrey. “ He said he 
would come to the gate and meet us.” 

“ Unprecedented,” began Ursula, but remember- 
ing a certain new-formed resolution not to make 
fun of her father’s peculiarities, she checked the 
words, and asked instead — 

“And mamma?” 

“I hardly know what to say, Ursula. I don’t 
think mamma’s well, somehow ; she’s so thin and 
white, I’m frightened to look at her sometimes.” 

Ursula’s lip quivered. 


26 


Ursula Vivian. 


“ She never spoke of being ill in her letters to me, 
Geoffrey” 

“I daresay not. She says she is quite well, 
but ” 

“ Say, Ursula, I guess you’ll be too womanified to 
field at cricket now, or run races up the Scaur, or 
go imaginary tiger-hunting in the woods, eh?” 
cried Tom, coming up breathless, with his sister’s 
portmanteau under his arm. 

" I don’t know, Tom, I hope not,” said Ursula, 
very soberly, for her thoughts were all of her 
mother. 

“ Are you going to get a trailing frock, and do 
your hair up behind, and wear an eyeglass, and 
have our new writing-master for a lover ?” asked 
Charlie, innocently. “ Tom said you would.” 

“ I’ll be even with you, Tom, by-and-by,” said 
Ursula, her face reddening, greatly to Tom’s 
delight. Very easily Ursula slipped into the 
boyish way of talking. In past holiday times she 
had amused her girl friends by carrying back 
to Aldborough a perfect repertoire of words and 
phrases which would have shocked the fastidious 
cars of the Misses Warner had they happened to 
hear Ursula reciting them with infinite relish. 

“You needn’t turn up your nose, Ursula,” said 


The Vivians of the Grange, 


27 


Tom. “Robinson’s no end of a swell. He has 
beautiful auburn hair. The young lady in the 
stationer’s shop says all the girls in Kessington are 
after Robinson, I tell you.” 

Then suddenly Tom went off into convulsions. 

“ He always walks up the High Street at three, 
though it isn’t his way home. Then you ought to 
see all the young ladies looking out. One day 
Williams and I for a lark put some gummy stuff 
inside his hat.” 

“You did it, Tom. I saw you making the stuff 
in the stable,” corrected Charlie. 

“ All right, young un, I did it then ; and he put 
it on, and Williams and I dodged him along the 
High Street. Well, of course in a minute we sees 
Mrs. Abbot and Miss Agnes coming, and Robinson 
gets off his hat to make a grand bow — at least he 
tried to get it off, but it was stuck on to his hair, 
you know, and it wouldn’t come, and he pulled and 
pulled till I believe some of his hair came out by 
the roots. I thought I should have died, and 
Tommy Williams squealed so loud I had to stuff 
my hand into his mouth to stop him. Robinson 
never saw us, but of course he knew it was me, and 
I got half-a-dozen from him in the morning, and 
now he locks his hat in the desk. 1 would not 


28 


Ursula Vivian. 


have missed the lark though I’d got ten half- 
dozens.” 

Ursula laughed, because it was impossible to 
help it. She wondered privately whether she 
would by-and-by be able to show Tom that such 
mischief-playing was not becoming, and so make 
him see that he was not sent to school for his own 
amusement, but to fit himself for a man’s work 
and a man’s responsibilities, which were coming to 
him very fast. She could not repress a sigh, for 
her whole soul was in the fun. She was herself 
Tom’s very counterpart, and enjoyed playing tricks 
or talking nonsense as much as he. 

" Here we are, and there’s papa,” said Geoffrey, 
and Ursula quickened her pace a little. 

A massive iron gateway gave admittance to the 
policies of The Grange. There was also a lodge, 
but it was uninhabited, and crumbling to decay. 
A wide avenue of beech trees, with boughs inter- 
lacing over head, led up to the house. It was 
beautiful still, and bore traces of a past grandeur. 
At the open gate stood Mr. Vivian, waiting to greet 
his daughter. He was a tall, slenderly-built man, 
of gentlemanly appearance, and faultless attire; 
but there was a languid air about him which told 
something of his idle propensities. His hair and 


The Vivians of the Grange, 


29 


beard were tinged with gray, and his face was 
beginning to show its wrinkles, for he was years 
past his prime. Ursula came to him somewhat 
awkwardly. She loved her father in her way, but 
she felt that they were out of the same order. She 
did not offer to kiss him even, till he bent toward 
her, saying, blandly : 

“Well, Ursula, so you have got home.” 

“Yes, papa, thank you,” said Ursula, and then 
drew back beside Tom, glad the greeting was 
over. 

Mr. Vivian turned with them, and walked slowly 
up the avenue, critically eyeing his daughter. She 
was very plain, offensive almost in his eyes. Mr. 
Vivian admired the beauty of form and colour 
rather than that of expression, and he rather re- 
sented Ursula’s brown and scraggy unloveliness. 
“What will I do with her?” was his mental ques- 
tion, and it was still unanswered when they reached 
the house. 

In the low, ivy^ wreathed doorway stood Mrs. 
Vivian, leaning slightly against the lintel, as if she 
required support. She was a lovely woman, with 
a pure, sweet, refined face, sadly wan and worn 
indeed, and large, dreamy blue eyes like Geoffrey’s, 
about which lingered many dark shadows. Ursula 


30 


Ursula Vivian. 


sprang to her with a sob, and took her in her 
strong young arms — the frail mother whom she 
worshipped, who was her ideal of everything 
saintly and sweet and good. 

“ Mamma, mamma, O dear mamma,” she whis- 
pered ; and Mrs. Vivian, smiling through her tears, 
smoothed the rough head, and answered back as 
only a mother can. 

“My daughter!” 

“Is tea ready, mamma?” inquired Mr. Vivian, 
looking as if he thought enough fuss had been 
made over Ursula ; and Mrs. Vivian, slipping from 
Ursula's clasp, answered with her usual readiness 
to please her husband. 

“Yes, I think Betty took it in when I called to 
her that you were coming. Come, Ursula, run up 
and take off your hat ; papa does not like to wait, 
you know.” 

“All right,” said Ursula, and ran first into the 
kitchen for a word with the faithful old woman 
who had served the Vivians for love alone for forty 
years. 

In an incredibly short time Ursula, who never 
spent any superfluous time over her toilet, had 
given her face a vigorous scrubbing, made a wild 
attempt to smooth her tangled hair, set her collar 


The Vivians of the Grange. 


31 


straight, and was ready, and ravenously hungry 
for tea. 

It was a pleasant meal. Never had the great 
gloomy dining-room, with its faded, shabby fur- 
nishings, seemed so dear and pleasant a place to 
Ursula Vivian. Never had the Babel of talk 
sounded so like music, never had the dear mother 
seemed so sweet, so lovely, so unutterably precious. 
Ursula spoke as much as any of them, but some- 
times in the middle of a sentence she would break 
off suddenly to look at her mother with eyes full of 
dread. 

What was it that sent such a strange sharp thrill 
to Ursula’s heart as she looked? It was not ex- 
actly that her mother looked ill, it was the ex- 
pression in her eyes which struck Ursula most of 
all. 

“ It seemed to me,” she said, talking of it long 
after to Mary Dunscombe — “It seemed as if 
mamma had tasted heaven before she said good- 
bye to earth. I never saw anything so beautiful 
and yet so solemn in my life.” 

When she bade her mother good-night before 
she went upstairs she put her strong young arm 
about the drooping shoulders and whispered 
tenderly : 


32 


Ursula Vivian. 


“You will rest now, mamma. I am as strong as 
a lion, and will do everything for you.” 

“ My darling, I know it,” returned Mrs. Vivian, 
looking up in the brown face, thinking it the 
dearest and sweetest in the world. 

“ My rest is close at hand.” 

Ursula did not ponder on these words — though 
they were meant to convey to her a deeper mean- 
ing. Well, there was time enough — oh yes, time 
enough. All too soon the truth would come home 
to Ursula Vivian ; all too soon she would need to 
leave her girlhood behind her and take up the 
duties and cares of womanhood — taking up with 
them too a woman’s cross. 



CHAPTER III. 

MAKING READY FOR THE CAMPAIGN. 

HEN Ursula awoke next morning the sun 
was streaming brilliantly into her room. 
She sprang up and looked at the little 
old-fashioned watch which had kept time for her 
at school. 

It was just seven, and the house was very still ; ^ 
but listening intently she heard faint sounds pro- 
ceeding from the lower regions, which told that 
Betty at least was already astir. Now if Ursula 
had a besetting sin it was a disinclination to get up 
in the morning, and in the list of her new-formed 
resolutions “early rising” had a prominent place. 
So by a mighty effort she conquered the desire to 
jump into bed and dream for another hour, and 
began to get on her garments in a great hurry, lest 
the temptation should prove too strong for her. 
When she was half-dressed, she was wide enough 
C 



33 


34 


Ursula Vivian. 


awake. So she moved over to the window, drew 
aside the blind, and looked out. 

Oh, how gloriously fair the world that summer 
morning ! 

The mists were clearing slowly from the green 
slope of the Scaur, the miniature mountain of 
which Kessington was so proud, and which had 
been the scene of innumerable gipsy gatherings 
and other juvenile escapades of the Vivians every 
holiday-time for years. 

A broad, beautiful meadow, dotted thick with 
daisies and buttercups, intervened between the 
Grange woods and the Scaur, and there the cattle 
were already browsing peacefully, enjoying a dainty 
^ bite, unmolested yet by their enemies the flies. 

The woods were living green, and resounding 
with the song of a thousand birds. Listening, 
Ursula easily recognised the various notes, for the 
boys kept her well versed in bird lore. 

The sweet eyes of the honeysuckle peeping in at 
the window were wet with dew, and the diamond 
drops glittered on every blade of grass, and filled 
to overflowing the dainty cups of the daisies on the 
lawn. 

Unable to express the exuberance of her delight, 
Ursula broke into a merry snatch of song, till 


Making Ready for the Campaign, 


35 


suddenly remembering she would surely awake her 
mother, she effectually silenced herself by plunging 
face and hands into cold water. 

In ten minutes she was dressed, and opening her 
door softly, she slipped downstairs and peered into 
the dining-room. The window was open, the 
curtains looped up, and the place ready for 
sweeping. 

Just then Betty entered with her broom. 

** Bless me. Miss Ursula, what are you doing up 
at this time ?” 

“ Why, it’s half-past seven, Betty,” said Ursula. 
" I’m going to get up every morning to help, you 
know. Tell me all the things mamma does, and 
I’ll begin at once.” 

Betty looked more than pleased, though she did 
not say much. 

“Well, you see, Miss Ursula, I generally call 
your mamma about this time, an* she comes down 
in time to dust the dining-room. When that’s 
done I set the breakfast, and she goes down and 
sees after the master’s chicken, or bacon, or fish, or 
whatever it is. He’s very particular, and she always 
does it herself.” 

“ Well, Betty, I’ll not meddle with the cooking 
this morning, but I’ll dust the dining-room and 


36 


Ursula Vivian, 


then ril set the breakfast, while you put on papa's 
chicken or whatever it is he gets,” said Ursula. 
“ Here, let me sweep the floor, for I need to learn, 
you know, and I’m abler than you, I believe.” 

Betty, nothing loth, gave up the broom, and 
retired to the kitchen, leaving the dining-room in 
Ursula’s hands. Mindful of her hair, Ursula lifted 
a brilliant-hued anti-macassar from the sofa, and 
wound it fantastically about her head. Then she 
set to work with a will, and raised such a cloud of 
dust that she was enveloped as in a mist. Then 
she shut the door, went outside to cool herself and 
to let the dust settle. Looking at the wealth of 
Gloire di Dijons growing in wild luxuriance in the 
neglected shrubbery, it occurred to her that a few 
in a glass of water would be a tempting addition to 
the breakfast table, so she plucked them, and retired 
indoors to procure a glass. 

The shrill whistling of a popular song warned 
her that the boys were stirring, so she made haste 
to get the dining-room dusted and the cloth laid. 
Not being very experienced in house work, her 
dusting was of a very superficial nature, and she 
forgot the table legs altogether. Nevertheless, the 
dining-room presented a very tidy appearance 
when she was done with it. She ran down to the 


37 


Making Ready for the Campaign, 


kitchen to wash her hands, and in her absence 
Mrs. Vivian came downstairs. She was vexed 
with herself for having overslept, and, as she 
thought, given Betty too much to do. When lo ! 
up comes Ursula, fresh and red as a rose from her 
second ablution, and wearing still the fantastic 
head-dress. 

“Good morning, dearest, sweetest of mothers,” 
cried Ursula, whose spirits had risen with the 
morning. 

“Good morning, dear; have you been down 
beside Betty I’m sorry I slept so long.” 

“You need not be, mum,” said Betty’s voice, 
“for Miss Ursula’s been up since goodness only 
knows when, and she’s cleaned the dining-room, 
and set the table, and everything.” 

Mrs. Vivian entered the dining-room, saw that 
it was in perfect readiness, and turned to Ursula 
with a tender kiss. 

“My helpful daughter,” was all she said, but 
was it not . enough, ay, more than enough, for 
Ursula ? 

“ Didn’t I tell you I was going to do everything 
for you, mother mine?” she said, gaily. “When 
do the boys generally make their appearance ?” 

“They drop in one by one, Ursula,” answered 


38 


Ursula Vivian. 


Mrs. Vivian. “We seem to be unable to keep 
regular hours here. I have made all sorts of 
rules, but they seem made only to be broken. 
I ” 

“ Hulloa ! here’s an Indian Begum or a princess 
of the Fiji Islands,” cried Tom’s voice in the door- 
way, and with one bound he sprang to Ursula, 
caught one end of the anti-macassar, and caused 
her to execute a war dance through the room. In 
the middle of the interesting performance Mr. 
Vivian entered, looking gravely displeased. 

“ Tom, leave your sister alone,” he said, sternly. 
“ Ursula, I am ashamed to see that you are still 
the hoyden whose unladylike behaviour made us 
forget your sex. Mamma, I wonder you do not 
check them.” 

“ It is only a little harmless nonsense, Geoffrey,” 
said Mrs. Vivian, quietly. “We cannot expect 
Ursula to be an old woman all at once.” 

“ Harmless nonsense, indeed ; it is very unbe- 
coming to a young woman. My sister Frances at 
eighteen was as sedate and dignified as she is 
now,” said Mr. Vivian. 

Tom made a grimace, which nearly upset 
Ursula. 

“I’d rather see Ursula like a red Indian than a 


Making Ready for the Campaign, 


39 


poker like Aunt Frances. She’s enough to hurt 
you, even to look at,” said Tom, daringly, and 
immediately made his exit to escape his father’s 
scathing rebuke. 

Mr. Vivian rang the bell furiously, which brought 
Betty up with the breakfast, and Geoffrey having 
appeared, the meal was begun. 

Ursula sat silent, keeping her eyes on her plate, 
but she noted, oh, very keenly, how little her 
mother ate. There was not much to tempt the 
appetite truly, coffee and bread and butter being 
all that was on the table, except the dainty morsel 
of chicken which lay on Mr. Vivian’s plate. 

It was an unsociable meal, and Ursula began 
to feel for the first time in her life that there was 
some mistake, some jarring discord, in the home 
life, and she made a silent resolution to do her 
best to improve matters. She had won a great 
victory already that morning by keeping a bridle 
on her tongue while her father was speaking. In 
times gone it would not have cost her a qualm to 
speak back, smartly and even impertinently ; but, if 
she was to be of any use to those she loved, if she 
was to do good to her unruly brothers, she must 
first be gentle and humble herself. 

Tom did not appear in the dining-room again, 


40 


Ursula Vivian. 


but coaxed a few scraps from Betty, and in about 
fifteen minutes Ursula heard him go whistling 
down the avenue. She looked out and saw that 
he had his books under his arm, and was evidently 
off to school. It was a fortnight yet till breaking 
up at Kessington Grammar School. 

Presently Geoffrey and the others followed him. 
Mr. Vivian went out with his campstool and his 
newspaper to the lawn, and Ursula was left alone 
with her mother. 

“ Now, mother, what do I do next ?” she said. 
“Wash cups or make beds?” 

“ Betty will wash up the things, dear ; you can 
come and help me to make the beds, if you like ; 
that is always my work.” 

Ursula was rather a harum-scarum housewife. 
She made a gale flapping the sheets up and down, 
and caused pillows to fly about in rather an 
alarming fashion ; but she was strong and very 
willing, did not mind being scolded or laughed at 
for awkwardness, so she was a most promising 
pupil. 

“ Now, that is so much. You are a great help, 
Ursula,” said Mrs. Vivian. “ I am going down 
to see after dinner, and you can read or play, or 
go outside. There is nothing particular to do now.” 


Making Ready for the Campaign. 


41 


“Very well, mamma,” said Ursula, and suddenly 
taking her mother in her arms with a grip which 
hurt, she murmured passionately, “My own, own 
mamma, how I love you ; I could die for you, I 
verily believe !” Then she dashed off, humming a 
song, and her mother saw her no more for hours. 

Ursula only went up a garret on an exploring 
expedition. The attic flat of the house was only 
used as a place for stowing lumber, and there was 
plenty of it in the shape of old trunks, broken 
furniture, and every conceivable kind of rubbish. 

There were three apartments, and Ursula went 
from one to another eyeing them with a critical 
air and as if she had some object in view. Finally, 
she seemed to come to a decision, for she threw 
open the funny little diamond-paned window in 
the smallest room, and immediately began to carry 
the lumber out of it into the other. When it was 
quite empty she glanced ruefully at the cobwebbed 
roof, the dusty walls and floor, for a few minutes, 
and then darted off to the kitchen like an arrow. 
No one was there, so she purloined Betty’s broom 
and dust-pan and flew upstairs again. Then she 
tied a piece of an old counterpane round her head, 
pinned up her gown, and set to work. In about 
half-an-hour there was a considerable improvement 


42 


Ursula Vivian, 


in the appearance of the place, but the floor looked 
as if it would be infinitely the better for an 
application of a washing-cloth, so Ursula stole 
down again, and after a hasty scramble got a pail, 
emptied the kettle of its contents, and trium- 
phantly retired. 

She had to get off her knees sometimes to laugh 
at the thought of what Isabel Fortescue and the 
rest would say if they saw her now. She gave the 
floor a vigorous scrubbing, washed all the cobwebs 
off the window panes, and then regarded her work 
with unalloyed satisfaction. The walls had no 
plaster on them, to be sure, and the traces of 
sweeping with a not too clean broom were very 
visible on the whitewash, but all the cobwebs and 
the spiders were demolished, the floor was respect- 
ably clean, and if the window was rubbed up 
Ursula’s first attempt at house-cleaning was 
complete. She set the pail on the landing outside, 
took off her head-dress, and worked as vigorously 
on the glass panes. She paused often to watch 
the sunny picture which stretched away beyond 
the low-lying roofs of Kessington, a beautiful 
picture of hill and dale, green meadow and dark 
woodland, and waving corn almost white unto 
harvest. 


Making Ready Jor the Campaign, 


43 


A great rugged beech tree grew just at that 
end of the house. Its topmost bough reached far 
above the windows ; its green leaves made a 
pleasant shade from the burning midsummer 
sun. When the window was duly polished Ursula 
retired into the larger attic to select certain articles 
of furniture for the sanctum. It was a rueful 
collection of dilapidated articles, some of them 
ancient enough to be almost curiosities in their way. 
Ursula proceeded first to examine an ebony table 
lying face downwards on the floor, with three 
scratched and chipped legs sticking appealingly 
into the air. She turned it up, propped it against 
the wall, and regarded it with favour. It was the 
very thing if she could but find its missing leg. 
She proceeded to hunt for it, but in vain, so the 
next course was to find a leg of something else and 
make it do duty on the table. To her delight she 
came upon a paper of small nails and a hammer, 
which Mrs. Vivian had mislaid in the garret ; so 
she would be saved another journey downstairs in 
search of these articles. After considerable delibe- 
ration she knocked the leg off another small old- 
fashioned tea-table, which had been laid aside 
because one of its folding ends was broken in two, 
and proceeded to nail it on the vacant place. By 


44 


Ursula Vivian, 


a lucky chance it was exactly the proper height, so 
to her joy the table stood perfectly steady on three 
black legs and a brown one. She carried it into 
her sanctum, set it against the wall near the window, 
taking care to place the brown leg in the shadow, 
and then stood back to admire her ingenuity. She 
was getting on famously. All she wanted now 
was a chair and a strip of carpet for the floor. So 
back she went to the curiosity shop. All the chairs 
but one lacked either one or two legs, and that one 
had a broken back. Ursula surveyed it medita- 
tively for a minute or so, and then knocked the 
back off entirely with the hammer, thus making a 
four-legged stool, which was exactly what she 
wanted, if it were but high enough. Unfortunately 
it was not, but that could easily be remedied by 
putting a hassock on it when she wanted to sit at 
the table. A strip of faded Brussels was found, 
one of which was laid in front of the hearth, the 
other at the table. Then indeed Ursula’s labours 
were ended, her study ready; she had nothing to 
do now but get a box for her manuscript, carry up 
pens, ink and paper, and begin. No young house- 
keeper ever felt such a glow of loving pride over 
her pretty drawing-room as Ursula Vivian felt over 
her attic sanctum that summer morning. Her face 


M aking Ready for the Campaign, 


45 


was beaming through the smudges on it ; her heart 
was as light and hopeful as a feather. She must, 
however, see that there was a key for the door, for 
her secret would not long be hid from the boys, and 
if Tom once found his way into her den, farewell 
for ever to her peace of mind and body! The key- 
hole was empty, so she lifted the pail and pro- 
ceeded downstairs. On the drawing-room flat she 
encountered her mother, who looked dumbfound- 
ered amazement at the grimy figure carrying the 
pail of dirty water. 

“ Child, what have you been doing ? I have been 
looking for you !” she exclaimed. 

“ I’ve been up garret, mamma,” laughed Ursula, 
“ fitting up a chamber of horrors. Come and see;” 
and she set the pail on the drawing-room mat and 
turned upstairs again, followed by her amused and 
wondering mother. ■ 

“ Don’t say I can’t clean house,” she saicf* fling- 
ing open the door of the transformed attic. “‘Will 
you walk into my parlour ?’ said the spider to the 
fly. All the spiders are dead and drowned, 
mamma. And what a lot there were! They ran 
up and down me like anything. I believe there’s 
some roosting in my hair yet.” 

“ My dear, you have certainly done wonders 


46 


Ursula Vivian. 


here, but what is it meant for — a place to study 
in, or what?” said Mrs. Vivian. 

“It’s an author’s den, mamma,” said Ursula, 
more soberly. “Seriously, I think I can write, 
mamma ; at least I am going to try my hand, and 
I wanted a quiet place away from the boys. I’ve 
been carpentering, too ; didn’t you hear the 
hammering?” 

“No, we can’t hear any noise from the attics 
downstairs, you know, owing to the construction 
of the walls and ceilings, I suppose,” answered 
Mrs. Vivian. “ You have done very well, Ursula, 
and I wish my daughter every success.” 

Ursula turned and kissed her mother, gravely 
and quietly. 

“You will not tell, mamma, honour bright,” she 
said, with a little rippling smile. 

“ I shall be dumb,” Mrs. Vivian laughed back. 

So the study was set in order. Little dreamed 
either of the two who laughed that morning what 
great things were to be done in it, and what 
widespread influences for good were to emanate 
by-and-by from the garret of Kessington Grange I 



CHAPTER IV. 

A BITTER HOUR. 

AMMA, how long is it since Robert was 
home?” asked Ursula one morning a 
few days later. 

“ He was down for a few days at Christmas, 
dear,” returned Mrs. Vivian. “He does not care 
very much about The Grange, Ursula. Your father 
and he do not get on very well together.” 

“ It is eighteen months since I saw him,” said 
Ursula, with a great sigh, “ and he never writes to 
me. What a funny family we are, mamma ! Why 
did Robert choose to go to London and begin 
business? The Vivians used always to be pro- 
fessional, were they not?” 

“ Yes ; but it was stern necessity in Robert’s 
case, Ursula. There will be no college course for 
any of the present Vivians.” 

Ursula opened wide her eyes. 

A? 



48 


Ursula Vivian, 


" For none of them ? Why, mamma, Charlie 
must be a minister. Would you not like to see the 
youngest of the boys a clergyman ?” 

‘^Like it?” echoed Mrs. Vivian, bitterly. ‘‘When 
you grow older, Ursula, you will learn that it is not 
what we would like in this world that falls to our 
lot, rather the reverse.” 

Never had Ursula heard her gentle mother speak 
with so much bitterness, and another question forced 
itself from her lips before she was aware of it. . 

“ Is papa’s income smaller than it was ? Are the 
farms let at a lower rental, or what, that money is 
such a scarce commodity with us now V 

“Farms!” re-echoed Mrs. Vivian. “Come and 
look here, Ursula.” 

In considerable astonishment Ursula joined her 
mother in the window. Mrs. Vivian pointed with 
her thin finger to the meadow lying at the foot of 
the Scaur. 

“ That and two other fields are all that remain 
to us of the Grange lands, Ursula ; their rental all 
the Vivians have to live upon. My slender fortune 
is all gone long ago ; so you see I was right in say- 
ing there could be no college course for any of my 
sons. This must be Geoffrey’s last session at 
Kessington, and I must bestir myself, for your 


A Bitter Hour, 


49 


father will not, about getting him something to 
do.” 

She did not speak complainingly, the time had 
been gone for that, but there was an undertone of 
hopelessness and despair almost in her voice which 
went to Ursula’s heart like a knife. She had not 
dreamed things were so bad as this. In that 
moment many things she had marvelled over, even 
in her unthinking girlhood, were made plain to 
her. The meagre table, the shabby clothes, the 
lack of needful domestic help in the house, — all had 
their explanation now. One thing, however, re- 
quired to be cleared up to Ursula’s satisfaction. 

“ Mamma, where did the money come from to 
pay my bills at Aldborough ? They were long ones, 
I know.” 

Mrs. Vivian’s face flushed, but the truth could 
not be kept from Ursula now. 

“ The Misses Warner were old and dear friends 
of mine when I was a girl like you, Ursula. For- 
tune had been very kind to them, not sc kind to 
me. Can’t you guess how it was ?” 

The hot blood rushed to face, neck, cheek, and 
brow, dyeing even her finger tips. Better, far 
better, she thought, that she had been taught to 
read and write at home, rather than receive 
D 


50 


Ursula Vivian, 


the highest education without payment ; but, 
for her mother’s sake, she kept her thought 
unspoken. There was no more said on the 
subject then, and presently Ursula, taking thought 
of her neglected household duties, left the room 
slowly and went downstairs for a broom and dust- 
pan. As she neared the kitchen door she heard 
Betty in conversation, or rather altercation, with 
some tradesman out in the back-yard. 

Peering through the scullery window, and seeing 
a butcher’s van in the yard, she lifted her broom 
and was about to retire, when a sentence fell on 
her ear which made her stand still. 

“ Well, all I can say, missis, is that you can’t get 
any more meat till there is cash paid down for 
what’s gone,” said a man’s voice rudely and sullenly. 
“ Them’s my orders. My master’s not goin’ to be 
took in as Barnes was. He’s only beginnin* busi- 
ness, an’ has a lot of mouths to feed, tell the 
squire ; an’ he’s as good a right to live as the 
squire has — better, indeed, for he’s an honest man.” 

Ursula waited to hear no more. Dropping her 
broom, she rushed upstairs and into her mother’s 
presence with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes. 

“ Mamma, there’s a man at the kitchen door — a 
butcher’s man — quarrelling with Betty. He seems 


A Bitter Hour. 


51 


to want money, and he is insulting papa. Give me 
what you have and let me go down to him.” 

Mrs. Vivian shook her head. 

“What I have by me, Ursula, would be of no 
use. We owe him nearly 

Ursula absolutely stared. 

“ Mamma,” she gasped, “ have we fallen so low as 
to be a butt for all the vulgar, spiteful imperti- 
nence of tradesmen’s boys ? Do we eat meat every 
day which has not been paid for? Tell me, it is 
some mistake.” 

“Sit down, Ursula, and hear me speak,” said 
Mrs. Vivian, her white lips quivering sorely. “ It 
is time now that you knew all the truth — time you 
were told of the burden which has been killing me 
for years. Yes, time,” she added, under her breath, 
“ for the burderf ere long will change hands.” 

But Ursula could not sit down. She paced to 
and fro the room like a caged lion, while her mother 
recited to her all the pecuniary embarrassments 
which you already know something of. When 
done, Ursula ran out of the room up to her garret 
and locked the door. She did not sit down to cry 
or to fret over the terrible humiliation and degrada- 
tion of the Vivians. No ; she drew her stool over 
to the table, sat down, and opened the box which 


52 


Ursula Vivian, 


contained her manuscript, written and unwritten. 
She crushed all the closely filled papers up in her 
hand, tossed them into the empty grate, and 
drawing a clean sheet towards her, lifted her 
pen. 

Her lips were compressed, her brows knit, her 
whole face set in grim resolution. She had found 
her life-work now. Henceforth there must be no 
idle scribbling of sentimental verse or comic prose 
for her own amusement ; no, henceforth it must 
be writing in dead earnest, with a settled aim in 
view. It was possible, with her one talent, to re- 
deem the honour of the Vivians ; to lift the load of 
carking care from her mother’s heart ; aye, and to 
shame her father in his selfish indolent indulgence, 
in his sinful neglect of his most sacred duties ! Be- 
fore she wrote a word that mornin*^ Ursula regis- 
tered her vow, first to consecrate her power to the 
service of the Lord; and second, to know no weari- 
ness nor fainting, to occupy every available minute 
of her leisure hours in her study ; and thirdly, to 
devote entirely whatever proceeds she might 
derive from her labours to one aim. 

She dropped her head down upon the page for 
a brief moment, and up from the depths of her 
sore heart went the voiceless prayer ; 


A Bitter HouVi 


53 


“ God help me ; God give me strength and 
power to fulfil my vow; God bless my work.” 

So Ursula’s first book was born in pain, cradled 
in prayer ; its first pages written in what was to her 
a dark hour indeed. I am not sure that it was not 
better so. It gave to her writing a deeper earnest- 
ness, and was the mainspring of that exquisite 
pathos which by-and-by was to be the marvel of 
reviewers and readers alike. 

It was Saturday, and the boys came home at 
one o’clock, with a programme ready for the dis- 
posal of their half-holiday. 

“Where’s Ursula?” shouted Tom, the moment 
he was in at the door. 

“ Ursula’s busy, dear,” said his mother, who had 
stolen upstairs a little while before, and peeped in 
upon Ursula unawares. 

“ Busy where ? What with ? We want her to 
go camping up the Scaur as we used to in the 
jolly old days. She promised these two Saturdays, 
but it always rained.” 

“Come and get your dinner first, and I’ll see 
about Ursula,” said Mrs. Vivian ; but Tom, throw- 
ing down his books, proceeded upstairs to look for 
his sister. 

« “ She’s up garret, of course,” he paused to shouX 


54 


Ursula Vivian, 


over the railing. “ She’s up to something, and I’m 
bound to find out what it is.” 

Being a cunning youth, Tom slipped ofif his 
boots at the foot of the attic stair, in order to 
catch Ursula unawares. Her door was a little 
ajar, and he had a good view of the room and its 
occupant. At the table sat Ursula, writing with 
a speed which seemed miraculous to the slow- 
handed youth who watched her. I wish I could 
describe to you the expression which came on 
Tom Vivian’s face at the discovery of Ursula’s 
secret occupation. Incredulity, amazement, and 
unalloyed disgust, all combined to make his broad 
face a study. 

“ Hulloa ! I’d like to know the meaning of this, 
anyhow,” he said at length, and advanced boldly 
into the room. Ursula started up, and then 
laughed. She was not so miserable yet but that 
she could laugh, and heartily, too. 

“You’re not going to take to writing books, of 
all awful things,” said Tom. “ Say, isn’t it only a 
lark, old girl ?” 

“ No, it isn’t a lark ; it’s real earnest, Tom,” said 
Ursula, with a strange deep gravity which almost 
appalled him; it was so unlike Ursula. “Don’t 
look so unutterably horrified,” she added, in a 


A Bitter Hour, 


55 


lighter voice ; “ I’m not going to turn into a 
dragon, or a blue-stocking, or anything.” 

“ If you go on writing books, goodness only 
knows what you’ll turn into, I don’t,” said Tom. 
“Well, I came to see if you’d camp up the Scaur 
this jolly afternoon ; but I suppose it’s no use ?” 

“Yes, of course I will,” said Ursula, pleasantly. 
“ My head aches anyway, and I could not go on 
much longer. Is dinner ready, and are the rest 
home?” 

“ Yes ; come on,” cried Tom, his face clearing at 
the unexpected consent. “ I believe it is a lark, 
Ursula. Women who write books never go camp- 
ing with boys, do they ?” 

“What do they do then ?” asked Ursula, begin- 
ning to gather up her manuscript. 

“ Sit round in a dirty room in a trailing frock 
and inky face and hands, and frighten men out of 
their wits,” said Tom; with which startling revela- 
tion of the habits of authors he retired, leaving 
Ursula to follow at her leisure. 

“You have been very busy, dear,” said Mrs. 
Vivian when Ursula entered the dining-room. “ I 
looked in upon you, but you were so absorbed I 
think you did not hear me.” 

“No, I did not hear, mamma,” said Ursula, with 


5 ^ 


Ursula Vivian, 


her old smile, which told the anxious mother that 
the first sharpness of the blow was past, and that 
peace reigned again in her daughter’s heart 

She entered with her usual zest into the boys* 
discussion of their plans, and made original sug- 
gestions to add to the enjoyment of their excursion 
up the Scaur. The talk was more unrestrained 
than usual, for Mr. Vivian had ridden up to the 
market town, ten miles distant, and would not be 
home till evening. The Grange stables had long 
been empty, but Mr. Vivian was never at a loss for 
a steed when he wanted one, his reputation as a 
borrower being established in Kessington and the 
neighbourhood. That morning Mr. Sandon of the 
Grange farm had reluctantly lent the Squire a 
high-spirited young mare, newly broken, and had 
seen him depart with considerable misgiving. But 
Mr. Vivian had laughed his plainly expressed 
apprehensions to scorn, and ridden away gaily, his 
fine figure showing to advantage in the saddle. 

When dinner was over the boys retired to array 
themselves in sundry old garments, which could 
not be much harmed by scrambling up the rocky 
sides of the Scaur, and Ursula was about to follow 
to pack a basket of eatables when her mother 
detained her a moment. 


A Bitter Hour, 


57 


“ Ursula, you will tell mamma what plan there 
is maturing in your mind. I can fathom some- 
thing of its nature from your eyes.” 

“Yes, mamma. I am going to try with my 
whole soul to turn my gift to good account. I 
have registered a vow that my hands will clear the 
honour of the Vivians, and that I shall lift the 
terrible burden from your heart ; and with God’s 
help I think 1 shall succeed,” said Ursula, with 
shining eyes. 

“ I pray God to prosper you, my daughter,” said 
Mrs. Vivian, and drew Ursula very close to her. 



CHAPTER V. 


UP THE SCAUR. 



T was an exquisite and beautiful thing to 
see how very dear Ursula Vivian was to 
all her brothers. They made fun of her, 
teased her, played endless tricks upon her, but 
they worshipped the very ground on which she 
trod. They formed a small legiment round her at 
the door, Geoffrey carrying her waterproof cloak 
for fear of rain, Tom the basket of eatables, Fred 
the battered tin kettle, which had done service so 
often on similar occasions ; and last, but not least, 
Charlie had under his arm a brown paper parcel 
containing sticks and matches. Ursula had be- 
thought herself of the sticks, for in all probability 
the pieces they might gather on the way would be 
soaked with the recent rain. 

“ Say, Ursula,” said Tom, as they passed out of 
the woods into the meadow, “ guess who’s going to 
picnic with us to-day ?” 


up the Scaur. 


59 


“ Nobody, I would fondly hope, considering the 
elegant appearance we present, and the somewhat 
meagre nature of our provisions.” 

“Well, Robinson’s coming. He saw you in 
Kessington with mamma yesterday, and he’s 
hopelessly smitten, so out of pity I invited him up 
the Scaur.” 

Ursula laughed, knowing Tom was speaking 
perfect nonsense. 

“That is a very stupid joke,” she said. “Who’s 
that coming across the meadow ?” 

Tom’s eyes were like needles, and could recog- 
nise people he knew from a great distance. 

“ It’s Mrs. Abbot and Miss Agnes and Laurence, 
junior. I heard the fellows saying to-day that he 
came from Oxford last night,” he answered, 
promptly. “ Let’s go and speak to them, Ursula. 
Laurence Abbot is the j oiliest fellow in the world, 
I tell you, though they say he’s the cleverest 
student at Oxford.” 

Ursula looked down at her woefully shabby 
gown, her ungloved hands, and laughed merrily. 

“All right, I want to see Agnes Abbot, and I 
don’t mind how I look ; so come on.” 

So the party made straight for the Abbots, and 
there was quite a Babel of greetings. 


6o 


Ursula Vivian, 


I need not describe the Abbots at length. A 
few words will suffice to introduce them to you. 

Mrs. Abbot was a gentlewoman and a mother, 
the light of her own home and the idol of the boys 
under her husband’s charge. Her daughter was 
her counterpart, with the added charms of youth 
and girlish grace. Agnes Abbot was sweet and 
pleasant to look at because of these things, but her 
brother Laurence was undeniably handsome. He 
stood six feet in his shoes, and carried his fine 
figure with ease and grace. His face was a plea- 
sant one to see, because of its frank, manly ex- 
pression, and because of the lurking spirit of fun 
in his deep grey eyes. They twinkled unmistak- 
ably when they lighted on the picnic party, and 
when Ursula looked up into his face and smiled 
comically he laughed outright. 

He remembered that wild brown little girl who 
used to come and play with Agnes long ago, but 
he had not seen Ursula for years. 

“ My dear, why have you never come to see us ?’* 
asked Mrs. Abbot, in gentle reproof. 

“ Because I did not like,” answered Ursula, with 
perfect candour. “I have wanted to see Agnes 
dreadfully often, but I could never summon up 
courage to present myself.” 


up the Scaur, 


6i 


‘‘If you have grown so shy, you are not the 
Ursula I used to know,” said Agnes, with a mis- 
chievous smile. 

Ursula laughed at the memory of certain 
escapades Agnes and she had shared in these long- 
gone, but still-remembered, days. 

“You zvill come now, though, Ursula,” said Mrs. 
Abbot, kindly. 

“Thank you, I will, some day. If mamma 
could come with me,” she added, with a little 
wistful sigh. “ But she is not strong, you see.” 

Laurence Abbot was busy talking with the boys, 
but he was watching Ursula closely, and heard 
every word she uttered. 

“ I will come down and drive your mamma ancV 
you up to Kessington one of. these days, if you will 
permit me. Miss Ursula?” he said. 

“ Thanks, I should like it of all things,” respond- 
ed Ursula, promptly. “And I’ll hunt up some 
gloves and things, so that the good folk of 
Kessington may not take fits, like you, when they 
see me.” With which characteristic speech Ursula 
offered her hand to Mrs. Abbot, saying they must 
be going, or they would be too late of reaching 
home at night. 

“ I don’t know what Ursula Vivian would look 


62 


Ursula Vivian. 


like if she were dressed as other girls are,” said 
Mrs. Abbot. “As it is, I must say she presents 
rather a comical appearance.” 

“I like Ursula, mamma,” said Agnes, “and I 
hope she will come and see us. There is no 
nonsense about her, and she is such fun.” 

“Ten years after this Miss Vivian will be the 
handsomest woman in Kessington, see if I’m not 
right,” said Laurence. “ She has glorious eyes, 
and as you say, Agnes, there is no nonsense about 
her. She will be a splendid woman some day.” 

“ I am very sorry for her,” said Mrs. Abbot, in 
her gentle, motherly way. “ Her mother is evi- 
dently far gone in decline, and their affairs are in 
a frightful state, your father says. There must be 
a great crash some day.” 

“ I’d like to horsewhip old Vivian,” said Laurence 
Abbot, with boyish irreverence. “ He’s the mean- 
est old vagabond in Christendom.” 

“ Strong language, my son,” said Mrs. Abbot. 

“ No stronger than the occasion warrants, mother 
mine,” said Laurence lightly, and the subject of 
the Vivians was dismissed. 

Meanwhile the picnic party had managed to get 
across the swollen stream at the base of the Scaur 
without more serious mishap than the loss oi the 


up the Scaur, 


63 


sticks, which Charlie let drop as he tried to find 
footing on some perilous stepping-stones. The 
matches were fortunately rescued, and they pro- 
ceeded to climb up the steep side of the Scaur, 
hoping to find some firewood on the summit. It 
was hard work, and they had to pause often for 
breath, but at length their climb was over, and 
they stood on the green hill-top and looked down 
on the clustering roofs of Kessington, lying far 
below. Ursula could have feasted her eyes on the 
beautiful panorama for hours, but the boys were 
impatient for tea, and began at once to build a 
fireplace of loose stones, while the younger ones 
went hunting for sticks. 

“I’ll look after the fire, Ursula,” said Tom, “if 
you’ll get out the things. Oh, I say, we’ve for- 
gotten to fill the kettle.” 

Each one looked blankly at the other, and at 
last Geoffrey volunteered to descend the hill and get 
the most indispensable element for tea-drinking; 
but Tom, snatching the kettle without a word, 
went flying down over the slippery stones with a 
speed which occasioned Ursula some anxiety for 
the safety of his neck. 

The fire was built and kindling beautifully when 
Tom returned with the full kettle, so it was 


64 


TJrsula Vivian, 


planted firmly in the middle of the flames, and in 
an incredibly short time was singing gaily. Need- 
less to say that their meal was enjoyed. They 
were as hungry as hawks, and though the tea 
savoured of smoke it was pronounced to be 
splendid. 

“Tell us a story, Ursula,” cried Charlie. “You 
always used to, you know, up the Scaur. Didn’t 
she, Tom ?” 

“Yes. Come on, Ursula, a real adventure, one 
with plenty of ghosts and robbers and fearful 
things in it. We can sit ever so long up here ; it’s 
so jolly and warm, and the sun won’t be down for 
hours.” 

Ursula looked towards the west, and shook her 
head. 

“ He will be down in one hour, or less, Tom. 
Can’t we be quiet for a little while. I don’t mind 
any stories just now,” she said. 

“Tell the one you are writing up garret,” sug- 
gested Tom, slily. 

Ursula blushed, and Geoffrey looked mystified. 

“You wouldn’t like it ; besides, I don’t know the 
end of it yet,” said Ursula. “Suppose we talk 
together — a real nice chat, you know, about all we 
are going to be and do in the future.” 


up the Scaur, 


65 


‘*You first, then,” said the incorrigible. "Tell 
us what kind of a frock you’ll have on when you 
marry Robinson, and who are to be the bridesmaids. 
That’s the kind of talk girls like, isn’t it?” 

Again Ursula’s hand was applied with some 
force to Tom’s ear. 

"That’s the kind of punishment small boys 
get when they are pert to their elder sisters,” 
she said. "Geoffrey, tell us what you are going 
to do?” 

" I know. He’s going to buy a piano and sail 
away in a balloon with it,” said Tom. "Well, 
Ursula, if you’ll tell us really all you are going to 
do. I’ll sit quiet and be dumb. Come on.” 

"Very well,” said Ursula, half-dreamily. "Well, 
do you see all the lands round and round the 
Grange, boys ?” 

"Yes !” they cried in chorus. 

" Once they all belonged to the Vivians, and I’m 
going to buy them all back again.” 

" How?” cried Tom. "You haven’t any money, 
not a copper ! for you couldn’t lend me a penny for 
toffee the other day.” 

" I’m going to make it,” said Ursula, more 
dreamily still. " I’m going to work hard and be 
successful.” 

£ 


66 


Ursula Vivian, 


“Oh, I know you’re going to write books up 
garret,” said Tom, half scornfully. 

Ursula nodded. 

“And, Ursula, when you have made all the 
money and bought back the lands, what will you 
do? That won’t be the end of your life,” said 
Geoffrey. # 

“ I hope not, Geoffrey, but at present I look no 
further than that.” 

“ I’ll tell you. She’ll marry Robinson, or perhaps 
Laurence Abbot; and live happily ever after.” 

Ursula reddened, and turning to Geoffrey, said 
it was his turn. 

“ Well, I’d like to go to Germany,” said Geoffrey, 
timidly almost, for he was making public a very 
cherished dream. “ I’d like to go and study under 
Wagner or Liszt, and compose music like them. 
And that’s what I mean to do if I can.” 

“We’ll shake hands. We are kindred spirits,” 
said Ursula, laughing a little, but speaking earnestly 
too ; and brother and sister shook hands over it 
accordingly. 

For a wonder Tom didn’t laugh. 

“ Well, I have nothing to say ; I haven’t any 
ambition ; and when I grow up I don’t know what 
I’ll do with myself,” he said. “ Spend my days 


Up the Scaur, 


67 


in humble obscurity, and live off my rich rela- 
tions.” 

“ I’m going to sea,” said Fred, without a moment’s 
hesitation, 

“ And I’m going to be a clergyman, and preach 
every Sunday, like Mr. Gresham,” said Charlie. 
“ I’d like to stand in the pulpit and swing my arms 
about like he does.” 

They all laughed, but presently Ursula turned 
to Charlie, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, 
said in a low voice : “ Yes, Charlie; I hope to 
see you in Mr. Gresham’s pulpit some day, and 
J’ll just give you a text now for your first 
sermon.” 

"Well?” 

They all waited breathlessly, and after a few 
minutes’ quiet her answer came, in a very grave 
voice : “ Owe no man anything, but to love one 
another.” 

Ursula’s text seemed to sober them somehow, 
though none of the boys knew anything of the 
feelings which had prompted her to say it, nor 
suspected its hidden meaning. She rose and 
began to gather the cups together in the basket. 
Geoffrey sat still, watching with dreamy eyes the 
crimson setting of the sun, while Tom and the 


68 


Ursula Vivian, 


others amused themselves silently by setting little 
stones rolling, and watching them chasing each 
other out of sight. 

“I think we’d best be moving, boys,” said 
Ursula, by-and-by, Mamma told us not to be 
late.” 

“All right,” said Tom, picking himself up, and 
lifting the basket. “This hasn’t been such a jolly 
camping as we used to have. It must be your 
blame, Ursula.’* 

“ Perhaps it is,” assented Ursula. "I am afraid 
I shall never have such jolly campings again.” 

“ Why ?” asked Geoffrey. ^ 

“ Because I’m getting to be a woman, I suppose. 
I must begin and feel pokey and old,” said Ursula ; 
a statement which so disgusted Tom that he set off 
at a trot down hill, to the music of the crockery 
rattling in the basket. He kept ahead of them all 
the way, whistling to himself, but paused at the 
wicket opening from the meadow into the woods. 

“ I hope you’ve had a pretty quiet walk, Sober- 
sides,” he said to Ursula. 

She did not answer. There was a strange sink- 
ing at her heart, a prevision of evil, for which she 
could not account, and which she did not care to 
speak to her brothers. 


up the Scaur. 


69 


Tom trotted off again, grimacing violently, and 
presently they were at home. The front door was 
wide open, and at sound of Tom’s whistling Betty 
came running out, holding up a warning finger. 

“ Hush, hush !” she said, in a strange awe-struck 
voice. "Step light, boys, for there’s come an 
awful trouble on the house. Miss Ursula, dear, 
your father got thrown from that wild horse out- 
side Kessington, and ” She paused, unable to 

complete the sentence. 

" I knew,” said Ursula, with a strange quiet calm. 
" Papa is dead, Betty. Let me go to mamma.” 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE AND DEATH. 

was a strange, still, miserable house next 
day. The boys crept about on tip-toe, 
looking as if they did not know what to 
do with themselves. They avoided the western 
room, where the quiet sleeper lay, waiting to be 
carried to his last rest ; but they would creep often 
to the door of another room, to knock softly and 
ask Ursula how mamma was now. The shock had 
utterly prostrated Mrs. Vivian, and she lay white 
and still upon her bed — so still, indeed, that Ursula, 
watching beside her, sometimes feared she too had 
slipped away. The physician had come in the 
morning, and had shaken his head. He looked at 
Ursula keenly and curiously, as if to judge whether 
she was able to bear his verdict. Then he called 
her outside, and laid his kind hand on her shoulder. 

“ The heart’s action is frightfully weak,” he said. 



The Mystery of Life and Death, 


71 


“The whole system has received a shock which, 
in its present condition, is very serious — nay more, 
absolutely dangerous.” 

Ursula lifted her eyes to the doctor’s face, and 
asked, oh so calmly — “ Is my mother’s recovery a 
matter of question, Dr. Hall ?” 

“It is. Miss Vivian, a matter of very grave 
question indeed.” 

Ursula heard, and was calm with the calmness 
of despair, 

“ I shall look in again in the evening. My dear, 
I would advise you to take care of yourself,” said 
the physician, disturbed by the strangeness of 
Ursula’s look and manner. “ There may be much 
for you to do in the sick-room yet.” 

Only “ may be.” These words rang their changes 
in Ursula’s ears, but she only lifted her eyes some- 
what wonderingly to the doctor’s face, and asked if 
he had any charge to leave concerning his patient. 

“ She is asleep now,” said the doctor. “ Do not 
wake her, for sleep is life. But when she does awake 
give her the medicine, as I directed. Good morning.” 

Mechanically Ursula returned his good-bye, and 
went back to the sick-room. The blinds were 
closely drawn, but a stray sunbeam crept in at the 
corner, and touched lovingly die white face on the 


72 


Ursula Vivian, 


pillow. Ursula knelt down by the bed, and fixed 
her eyes on it. She had never felt such a dead, 
stony feeling in her heart. She had read of mental 
anguish which dried up the well-springs of natural 
grief, anguish without tears or outward sign of any 
kind, and this was it. She looked on the sweet 
face so deathly pale, at the long lashes sweeping 
the cheek, at the white lips with the strange blue 
lines encircling them, then bowed her head and 
tried to pray. But she could not. Her lips were 
dumb, her heart would not uplift itself even to ask 
that the beloved might be spared. While she 
knelt, there came a low tap to the door, and Betty 
entered with a telegram in her hand. 

“What did the doctor say, Miss Ursula?” asked 
the faithful soul, her eyes overflowing. 

“ There is no change since last night ; he cannot 
tell how it will end,” returned Ursula, breaking the 
seal of the envelope. “ This is from Robert. Are 
the boys about, Betty ?” 

“Yes, Miss, hanging round downstairs. Poor 
things, it makes my heart sore to sec ’em.” 

“Come away down then, Betty. Mamma is 
asleep. She needs no watching for a few minutes,” 
said Ursula, and they stole softly downstairs to find 
Tom sitting discon^lately on the bottom step. 


The Mystery of Life and Death, 


73 


Ursula laid her hand gently on his bent head, and 
tried to say something to comfort him, but failed. 

“ Mamma is much the same ; no worse, at any 
rate,” she whispered. “This is a telegram from 
Robert. He will be here at once. Some of you 
had better go to the station and meet *him. You 
and Charlie, and Fred perhaps. Geoffrey might 
be needed while you are gone.” 

Tom got up — glad, thankful for something to do 
— took up his cap, and went out to tell the rest. 
Then Ursula stole down to the kitchen to see what 
there was in the house for dinner. It was strange 
how, even in her great agony, she was so mindful 
of little things. Not one needful duty escaped her 
memory. She thought of everything and every- 
body, as she had need, since all were dependent 
upon her. When she had given Betty all neces- 
sary directions she stole upstairs again, but before 
entering her mother’s room a strange impulse bade 
her cross the corridor and enter the chamber of 
death. She did so very quietly, but her heart was 
beating wildly, for Ursula Vivian had never yet 
looked upon the face of death. The night before 
she had been entirely occupied with her stricken 
mother, and other hands had prepared the Squire 
of Kessington Grange for his burial. 


74 


Ursula Vivian, 


Id this room also the blind was down, but 
Ursula, before glancing at the bed, drew it up to 
the top, and admitted the full glory of the sun- 
shine. Then she approached the bed, turned down 
the sheet, and looked upon her father’s face. It 
was perfeot peace. His death had been immediate 
and painless. There was not a trace of struggle on 
his face. There stole into Ursula’s heart as she 
looked a strange deep peace, and befor^ she was 
aware her eyes were blinded by tears. 

In that moment she remembered all that was 
good and loveable in her father ; remembered only 
his kind wofds and looks — all the rest was for- 
gotten. Into her heart, too, there crept bitter pain 
over her own past conduct, unavailing regret, a 
great longing that she might but whisper into ears 
which heard all her love, all her sorrow for the lack 
of daughterly tenderness and care. It is ever 
thus ; our grief over our loved and lost would be 
less hard to bear were it robbed of the sting of 
self-reproach. Oh, that we had done more ! is our 
constant cry ; oh, for one, only one, opportunity to 
gladden the quiet heart with a word of unutter- 
able love, to ease our .own burden by one prayer 
for forgiveness. Too late ! 

Ursula knelt down there and prayed for forgive- 


The Mystery of Life and Death. 


75 


ness, for help, for strength, for endurance, and 
rose comforted. Bending over the lifeless figure 
she touched the brow with her lips. 

“ Farewell, my father, I know now how I have 
loved you.” 

Then she stole back to her mother’s bedside, to 
watch and wait and pray. About two o’clock she 
heard footsteps approaching the house, and rising 
she drew aside the blinds and looked out. It was 
eighteen months since she had seen her brother 
Robert, and during that time he had grown more 
manly in appearance. He was very like Ursula, 
but his face lacked something that hers possessed. 
It was a hard, stern face to see in one so young 
— the face of one who had done firm battle in 
the field of life. After that look Ursula dropped 
the blind with a sigh, and, stepping from the 
room, stole down to welcome him. 

She came so softly that Robert, busy with his 
portmanteau at the lobby, was unaware of her pre- 
sence till she spoke. 

“ Robert, I am glad you have come.” 

He wheeled round, looked her all over with his 
keen eyes before he kissed her. He was astonished 
at the change in Ursula, she looked so old and 
worn and sad. 


76 


Ursula Vivian, 


“ This is a bad business, Ursula,” he said curtly. 
“ How is my mother?” 

“ Come into the dining-room, Robert. Dinner 
is served I think, and I will tell you all about it 
while we eat. Time is precious now,” said Ursula. 
‘‘Call Geoffrey, please Tom, he is outside 
somewhere. We cannot ring the bell, you 
know.” 

Ursula sat down with the rest, but Robert 
noticed that while attending to the wants of others 
she touched nothing herself. 

Before the meal was half over she rose. 

“ I must go upstairs again,” she said, in a hurried, 
restless way. “ If mamma is awake I shall tell her 
you have come, and call you, Robert.” 

“ Has Ursula been up all night, Geoffrey?” asked 
Robert, when she had left the room. 

“Yes, she has been with mamma ever since it 
happened, you know,” said Geoffrey. “ She looks 
ill, don’t you think ?” 

“ She does. Will you take me up to the room 
where my father is?” said Robert. 

“ I’d rather not,” replied Geoffrey, timidly, and 
Robert’s lip curled at what he thought an exhibi- 
tion of womanish weakness. 

“ I’ll come,” said Charlie, void of fear on his own 


The Mystery of Life and Death, 


77 


account, though he had been influenced by the be- 
haviour of the others. 

So the eldest and the youngest of the brothers 
went upstairs together. At the door, however, 
Robert turned, and bidding Charlie run down- 
stairs, entered alone. He did not stay many 
minutes, and as he closed the door Ursula looked 
out of her mother’s room and beckoned to him. 

“Mamma is awake. I have told her you are 
here. You had better come in now,” she whis- 
pered, and Robert Vivian obeyed her noiselessly. 

When he came to the bedside he could not 
speak. His feelings were deeply seated and difii- 
cult to reach, but his love for his mother was 
almost a passion with him. 

Mrs. Vivian held his hand in both of hers, 
looked up into his face, and shook her head. 

“ I am glad you have been able to come, Robert; 
I was afraid,” she said, with difficulty. “ This is a 
sudden change. You will be kind to your sister 
and brothers, my son, when they have no one else ?” 

“ There is surely no need to ask, mother,” said 
Robert, huskily. 

Mrs. Vivian looked satisfied, and then her eyes 
wandered from his face in search of another dearer 
even than her first-born son. 


78 


Ursula Vivian* 


“ Ursula!” 

“ I am here, mamma,” said Ursula, choking back 
her rebellious grief. 

Robert Vivian stood back a little, and watching 
Ursula’s gentle, womanly tenderness marvelled 
greatly, for this was not the wild tomboy who had 
generally grated on his sensibilities, but instead a 
sweet, helpful woman, with gentle hands and a 
low, soothing voice — a very angel in a sick-room. 
Ah, there were possibilities in Ursula’s nature un- 
dreamed of by many besides her brother Robert. 

A few sympathising friends called at Kessington 
Grange in the course of that day and the next, 
but Ursula, absolutely refusing to leave her 
mother, saw none of them. Among the first to 
come were Laurence and Agnes Abbot. Robert 
Vivian made all the necessary arrangements, and 
upon the third day they carried Geoffrey Vivian 
the elder to his last rest in Kessington churchyard. 
Ursula alone remained at home, but from the 
window she watched the sad procession out of 
sight, and then went back to her now unconscious 
mother. Doctor Hall had told her plainly that 
morning that there was no hope now, and that it 
was only a question of hours. He could not tell 
whether she would recover consciousness before 


The Mystery of Life and Death. 


79 


the end, but thought it improbable. Ursula, 
knowing all this, kept calm, but all that day she 
went about with a constant prayer in her heart 
that there might be recognition at the end, a last 
look and word to cherish in the desolation at 
hand. Her prayer was answered. The brothers 
returned from Kessington about four o’clock, and 
Ursula called them all up at once, for she observed 
a tremor in her mother’s white lids which seemed 
to indicate the return of consciousness. 

While they watched, a sad-eyed band, the 
mother opened her eyes. 

“Are they all here, Ursula?” she asked, clearly 
and distinctly. 

“ All here, mamma,” Ursula answered. . 

“ That is good. Love one another, stick close 
together, and never forget God,” she murmured. 
“ Ursula, my darling, I leave them all with you.” 

These were her last words. 

Even as they looked, another Watcher stole into 
the room, and the happy spirit recognising Him 
and obeying His call, exchanged a cross for a crown, 
and went to “ be with Christ, which is far better.” 

“It is all over, Ursula,” said Robert Vivian. 
“Orphaned in three short days. How great is 
the mystery of life !” 



CHAPTER VII. 

PLANS AND HOPES. 

SULA, I must return to London to- 
morrow,” said Robert Vivian. It was 
the evening of the day in which Mrs. 
Vivian had been laid to rest beside her husband 
in Kessington churchyard. 

The boys were all in bed, and Robert and 
Ursula alone in the dining-room. Robert was 
standing, leaning against the mantel, Ursula with 
her hands listlessly folded in her lap. There was 
not a vestige of colour in her face, and there were 
great deep shadows about her eyes and mouth 
which told of sleeplessness and sorrow. She 
lifted her eyes to her brother’s face and asked 
listlessly : 

“ Is it imperative that you go to-m.orrow ?” 

“Absolutely so,” returned Robert, in his brief, 
curt way. “ So now that we are alone we had 
better discuss what is to be done with you all.” 

8o 



Plans and Hopes, 


8i 


Ursula winced. She was a woman now, and 
she did not like to be spoken of in that manner. 

“ I have been thinking it all over,” said Robert 
Vivian, “and the best thing will be to sell the 
Grange, and come all of you to London. I 
shall leave my lodgings, of course, and rent a 
house.” Ursula sat up suddenly, all her listlessness 
gone. 

“ Sell the Grange !” she repeated. “That would 
be a strange and, to my thinking, a very wrong 
thing to do. We have no right to sell the birth- 
right of the Vivians.” 

“ It is mine,” her brother reminded her some- 
what unkindly ; and Ursula had no answer ready 
for that. “ None of us can afford to indulge in 
any sentimental nonsense at this time, Ursula,” 
said Robert, with asperity. “These lads upstairs 
must learn to work for themselves ; and what scope 
is there in this country place ? I cannot afford to 
keep up two establishments, so the Grange must 
go. Perhaps at some future time we can buy it 
back, and improve upon it.” 

Robert Vivian meant kindly ; his heart was all 
right at the bottom, but he had not the knack of 
saying disagreeable things pleasantly. Ursula put 
her hand over her eyes a moment, for rebeliious 
F 


82 


Ursula Vivian, 


tears were welling up in them, which she did not 
choose her brother should see. 

“ I have heard your plan, Robert,” she said, 
after a brief silence. “Will you listen to mine ?” 

He nodded, and Ursula continued : 

“ I have thought the matter entirely out, and I 
am certain that I could keep myself and the boys 
off what income will still be coming in every year 
from the fields, which are ours yet. You would 
only have the boys’, Fred’s and Charlie’s, school fees 
to pay for. Geoffrey and Tom must leave at once, 
of course. Will you let me try it for six months?” 

“ What income is there ?” asked Robert. 

“About a hundred pounds,” returned Ursula, 
and again there was a silence. The plan was 
feasible enough, and Robert Vivian was not 
altogether sorry at the prospect of a release from 
the necessity of making a home for his brothers in 
London. 

“ It will be pretty tough work for you, Ursula,” 
he said ; “ but if you are bent upon trying it, you 
may.” 

“ Thank you,” said Ursula, very gratefully. “ You 
will not regret it, I promise you.” 

“ I shall look out for something for Tom to do 
in London. As for Geoffrey, I don’t know what 


Plans and Hopes, 


83 


he is fit for, neither one thing nor another. I 
have no patience with him. When I was his 
age I was fighting my own battle, and winning 
it too, unaided in the city,” said Robert, with 
conscious pride. 

“ Do you know what Geoffrey has done, 
Robert?” 

«No. What?” 

** He told me not many minutes ago. He has 
hired himself as shop-boy to Mr. Aarons, the 
music-sell,^r ; and Mr. Aarons’ son, you know, is 
the organist of St. Michael’s, and will, I am sure, 
help him in every way, if he proves satisfactory.” 

Robert Vivian looked much surprised, but also 
pleased. 

"I did not think Geoffrey had so much pluck 
in him. Well, Ursula, how will you like to see a 
Vivian sweeping out a shop and selling cheap 
music over a counter?” he said, with just a touch 
of sarcasm. 

“Work is not dishonourable, even to a Vivian,” 
Ursula answered quietly. “ There is another thing, 
Robert, about the debts,” she said, hesitatingly. 
“ Papa owed a lot of money in Kessington.” 

Robert Vivian’s brow grew very stern. 

“ How much ? Have you any idea ?” 


84 


Ursula Vivian, 


Ursula shook her head. 

“ Hundreds of pounds, I should imagine,” she 
answered. “ These must be paid, Robert.” 

Robert Vivian began to pace up and down the 
floor with his eyes bent upon the ground. 

“ I am going to Kessington to-morrow, to 
ascertain the exact sums from the different trades- 
people,” said Ursula, “and we must pay them 
between us.” 

Robert Vivian stood still and stared at his sister, 
thinking she was losing her wits. 

“ I must pay them, you mean,” he said, with 
unmistakable bitterness, for it meant giving up 
the greater part of his hard-earned savings to pay 
debts which ought never to have been incurred. 

“No, you will pay one half, I the other,” said 
Ursula. “ I can work for myself too, Robert, and 
in time be as rich as you.” 

She rose as she spoke and took a magazine 
from the sideboard drawer. Turning over its 
pages she pointed him to a story which occupied 
a prominent place. 

“ That is mine,” she said. “ I got ten pounds for 
it, and the editor asks me for something more, as 
soon as I can write it.” 

If ever man was amazed, Robert Vivian was at 


Plans and Hopes, 


S5 


that moment. He had never received so many 
shocks of surprise in his life as Ursula had given 
him since he came to Kessington a week ago. 

“You wrote it, Ursula? Impossible!” 

“Yes, I did. My initials are at the e^d, and 
the cheque is right enough,” said Ursula, without 
pride or elation. “ So, Robert, if you will pay all 
the debts I shall consider myself your debtor for 
the half of it. I shall be able to pay it, I expect, 
in a year or two at most. Will you ?” 

Ursula rose considerably in her brother’s esti- 
mation, and he regarded her with interest. 

“You are a brave woman, Ursula, as well as a 
clever one,” he said, with a heartiness which 
brought a faint smile to Ursula’s lips. 

“I promised mamma,” she said, with a sob in 
her voice, “ that I would restore the honour of the 
Vivians; and I promised myself, Robert, that I 
would buy back all the lost Grange lands ; and I 
will, ay, every acre of them 1” 

“ If you do that, Ursula,” said Robert Vivian, “I 
shall relinquish all my small claim on the Grange, 
and it will be your own. I wish you every success.” 

“Thanks,” said Ursula. “Well, will you agree 
to my plan ?” 

“Certainly. Tell the tradesmen to send their 


86 


Ursula Vivian^ 


accounts to me, and I’ll return cheques at once. 
Then we can make out our contract, Ursula, which 
will form a new relationship between us.” 

“Debtor and creditor,” repeated Ursula. “How 
I hate these words ! Then that is settled, Robert ?” 

Robert Vivian nodded. Then Ursula bade him 
good-night, and went away upstairs. It did not 
occur to him that there was anything mean or 
unbrotherly in his conduct. He simply knew the 
value of money, and if Ursula could get her £ lo 
cheques so easily and so quickly, it was but fitting 
that she should share the burden with him. He 
was essentially a worldly man. His chief aim and 
ambition was to be rich, to count his money by 
thousands and tens of thousands, and to enjoy all 
the prestige wealth gives to its owner. Don’t 
judge him too hardly; he had been trained in a 
hardening school, and as yet very few of the softer, 
sweeter influences of life had crossed his path. 
Over his last cigar — the only luxury he permitted 
himself — Robert Vivian thought about his sister 
and her independence till his admiration and 
respect for her increased still more. And Ursula, 
in the meantime, was kneeling by her bed weeping, 
and praying that the aching void in her heart 
might be filled ; praying that all rebellious bitterness 


Plans and Hopes, 


87 


might be removed, and that she might truly and 
humbly say, “Thy will be done;” and that she 
might be kept from useless repining, and enabled 
to do her duty in all the relationships of life as 
befitted a woman and a Christian. These were 
the terms she applied to herself — the madcap 
Ursula, who had been the plague and the sunshine 
of The Elms, and of whom nobody expected either 
usefulness or good. Surely this was a change 
indeed ! 

Early on the morrow Robert Vivian left for 
London, and the little band of orphans were left 
in their desolate home to make the most of what 
was left, and comfort each other. As she had 
planned, Ursula dressed herself in the afternoon 
and proceeded to Kessington on her unpleasant 
business. 

Many pitying glances followed the girlish figure 
in deep mourning wending its way through the 
streets, and many wondered that Miss Vivian cared 
to be abroad so soon after the double bereavement 
which had fallen upon the Grange. She performed 
her task unflinchingly, and was received by the 
various shopkeepers with a courtesy and respect 
she had hardly dared to expect. They were 
without exception surprised, not expecting such 


88 


Ursula Vivian, 


speedy and satisfactory settlement of their claims 
upon the estate of the late Mr. Vivian. When 
Ursula was done she breathed freely, and came 
back through the High Street walking with a lighter 
step and holding her head more erect, feeling that 
she was without reproach in the eyes of the 
trades-people now. 

At the music shop she paused half-a-minute, 
and then went in. Mr. Aarons was behind the 
counter himself, and received her blandly. He 
was a fussy little German Jew, who by some 
queer trick of fortune had settled in Kessington, 
and who purveyed for the musical taste of its 
inhabitants. 

“I have called, Mr. Aarons,” said Ursula, lift- 
ing her veil and looking straight into the old 
man’s face, “to thank you for your kindness to 
my brother Geoffrey, especially at this time when 
we need it so much.” 

“ Not at all, not at all, my dear madam. It was 
but a small thing,” said Mr. Aarons, in his fussy 
way. “ I needed a smart lad who had a taste, 
mark you, a taste for the profession, and they are 
very few, believe me, in this dull place. I knew 
your brother boy. Miss Vivian. He often dropped 
in here on his way from school, so when he asked. 


Plans and Hopes, 


89 


would I give him something to do, I jumped at the 
chance, of course.” 

Ursula smiled. That was Mr. Aarons’ way of 
doing a favour. She wished others in Kessington 
could learn of him. 

“ I think Geoffrey will suit you, Mr. Aarons,” she 
said, “ if you don’t let him dream over your instru- 
ments. I warn you when he sits down to a piano 
he forgets everything.” 

“ Don’t I know it ?” said the music-seller, glee- 
fully. “ Haven’t I seen it, and is not that what 
I want — a being with a soul for the profession ? 
Your brother has that soul, and he will be a 
great man yet. Listen,” the music-seller lowered 
his voice as if he were imparting a great secret, 
“ my son Franz will be going back to the Father- 
land some of these days, and he will prepare your 
brother to take his place at St. Michael’s. He says 
so. The lads are great friends.” 

Ursula’s eyes glistened, and she held out her 
hand to the old man. 

“ I don’t know what to say, Mr. Aarons,” she said, 
simply and earnestly, except that I thank you for 
your great kindness to an orphan.” 

Suspicious drops glistened on Mr. Aarons* 
eyelashes, and when Miss Vivian left the shop 


90 


Ursula Vivian, 


he had to blow his nose very violently, and it 
was some little time before he could settle to his 
work again. 

As Ursula was passing St. Michael’s Church 
she saw Laurence Abbot on the other side of the 
street. She bowed to him, and was about to 
pass on, but stood when she saw him taking 
strides towards her. He offered no words of con- 
dolence or greeting, but he held the thin hand in 
a grasp of iron, and looking straight into her eyes 
said : 

“Come up and see my mother, Miss Ursula;** 
that being in his idea the surest way to comfort 
her. 

“Thank you, I think I will,” said Ursula 
simply, wondering why she should feel so com- 
pletely at home with this young man, and why 
she should ever feel a kind of comfort in his 
presence. 

So in the eyes of Kessington they turned to- 
gether round St. Michael’s corner, and up the hill 
to the Grammar School. 

“ I was sorry I did not see Agnes and you 
when you called,” said Ursula, feeling that she 
must say something, she was so dangerously near 
breaking down. 


flans and Hopes. 


91 


"We hardly expected it,” returned Laurence. 
" Miss Ursula, I wish I could tell you how I feel 
for you. It is in moments like these one feels 
the miserable inadequateness of the English 
language.” • 

" I know very well,” said Ursula, gently. "One 
feels unexpressed sympathy just as well as the 
other kind. Your hand-shake was enough,” she 
added, with a trace of the old smile not quite lost 
yet. “ My fingers tingle yet.” 

The rest of the way was gone in silence. In 
silence, too, Laurence took her into the house, 
saying, when he opened the drawing-room door, 
"Mother, I have brought Miss Vivian to you.” 

Then he slipped away to look for Agnes, who 
was busy in her own garden behind the house. 

"Agnes, I met your friend Ursula Vivian in 
the High Street, and I brought her up. She is 
in the drawing-room with mother,” he said, when 
he found her. 

Agnes Abbot laid down her hoe, and began to 
draw off her garden gloves. 

" What does she look like, Laurence ?” she asked, 
with a suspicious tremor in her voice. 

" Like a brave woman who has passed through 
sorrow like hers, but who can bear it nobly” 


92 


Ursula Vivian. 


returned Laurence; and his sister wondered at 
the earnestness with which he spoke. 

“ I am afraid to go in, Laurence,” she said by- 
and-by. “I don’t seem to know this Ursula. 
The one I knew was a wild girl, who led me 
into all kinds of scrapes ; and besides, I am so 
stupid — I can only cry when I am speaking to 
people in sorrow.” 

Laurence thought of the Bible words, “Weep 
with them that weep,” and smiled a little. 

“You always know just the right thing to do 
at the right moment, Nessie,” he said, using the 
old childish name which Agnes had rebelled 
against in her young ladyhood. “But we will 
wait a little, and let mamma do the comforting, 
which is her forte.” 

So they lingered awhile among the flowers, 
talking of Ursula, and then went together into the 
house. 

Mrs. Abbot and Ursula were sitting side by 
side on an ottoman in the drawing-room. Both 
had been weeping. Agnes took her old friend in 
her arms, and whispered her ready words of 
sympathy. Then Mrs. Abbot said pleasantly : 

“Ursula will stay tea, dear; take her upstairs, 
and I will order it at once.” 


Plans a7td Hopes-. 


93 


So it came to pass that Ursula spent an un- 
speakably pleasant hour, the first of many to come 
at Kessington Mount. 

To Ursula Vivian sympathy and love were very 
precious, and comforted her as nothing else could 
have done. If ever Mrs. Abbot deserved the name, 
the “ Doctor’s Angel,” which the pupils of the 
Grammar School had given her when she came 
among them thirty years before, she deserved it 
that night for her treatment of Ursula Vivian. It 
was little wonder that Laurence Abbot thought 
his mother the most perfect woman in the world. 
She was as nearly perfect as it is possible for 
humanity to be. She lived so near to God that 
her very presence seemed to raise the thoughts of 
those with whom she came in contact to higher 
and better things. 

At sundown Laurence Abbot took Ursula home. 

“ My boys will be thinking something has 
happened to me,” she said, when they paused at 
the gate. “Perhaps I ought not to have stayed. 
I am the head of the house now, you know.” 

Laurence Abbot looked at her compassionately. 

“ Pardon the question, I cannot help it, but do 
you intend to remain at the Grange still 

“Yes. hty brother Geoffrey has got a situation 


94 


Ursula Vivian, 


in Mr. Aarons’ shop, one after his own heart, 
seeing he is a born musician,” said Ursula, without 
hesitation or shame. “My brother Tom will go 
to Robert in London. I expect the others will be 
with me, and continue at school here. These are 
our present arrangements.” 

It was Ursula’s way to be perfectly frank and 
open, but she felt already as if she had known 
Laurence Abbot for years. 

“Won’t you come up to the house?” she said, 
presently, wondering why he did not speak. 

“ No, thanks, not to-night. Another time, I will 
bring Agnes, if you will permit your invitation to 
stand.” 

“Of course, why not? Thank you very much 
for your kindness, Mr. Abbot. I have been greatly 
comforted to-day,” said Ursula. 

Then they shook hands warmly, and went their 
separate ways. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

SHADOW AND SUNSHINE, 

ITHIN a fortnight, Ursula received a letter 
from Robert stating that all the accounts 
had reached him from Kessington, and 
that the debt, amounting in all to £420, was now 
paid. Ursula breathed freely when she read it. 
She had let her imagination run away with her at 
times, and had magnified the sum to double and 
treble that amount. So it was ;^ 2 io she had 
pledged herself to pay. How many hours up 
garret would be required to make that sum, she 
wondered, with a little smile ; then she turned the 
page to finish the letter : — 

“You will get Tom ready as fast as possible,” 
Robert wrote, “and send him on to me. The 
Messrs. Grimsby have agreed to receive him, as 
they received me, into their warehouse as an errand 
boy, and he will have exactly my chance. If he 



95 


g6 


Ursula Vivian, 


does not improve, it is his own blame. He will 
board with me, of course, and what he earns will 
be sufficient to keep him in clothes. He had 
better come on Tuesday by the morning train, and 
I shall meet him at the station. Hoping you are 
all well, and in good spirits,— I am, your affectionate 
brother, R. VlvlAN.” 

The letter was wholly satisfactory, yet Ursula 
could not repress a sigh as she folded it up. It 
was a good thing for Tom in all ways, yet what 
would the Grange be without the harum-scarum 
youth, whose gay laugh and irrepressible fun were 
the life and sunshine of them all ? What would 
become of him, working hard with his hands all 
day, and in the evening confined to the com- 
panionship of his grave, silent, practical brother. 
In Ursula’s eyes Tom’s was likely to be the 
hardest lot of any. She put the letter in her 
pocket, and proceeded out of doors to look for the 
boys. It was holiday time now for them all, save 
Geoffrey, who trudged contentedly into Kessington 
to the music-shop, every morning at eight o’clock. 
She found them apparently holding a solemn con- 
clave on the roof of the hen-house. 

“ Come down, Tom ; I want you for a few 


Shadow afid Sunshmei 


97 


minutes,” she said ; and Tom, sliding like an eel 
from his elevated position, was at her side in a 
moment. 

“A message to Kessington, is it?” he asked, 
shaking the dust off his jacket. 

“ No, there is a letter from Robert,” she answered, 
so gravely that Tom immediately asked, 

“ What’s up ?” 

Ursula took the letter from her pocket, and 
pointing to the last page bade him read, which he 
did, and then handed it back without a word. 

“Well,” said Ursula. 

“Well, I suppose I’ve got to go,” said Tom, in 
a choking voice ; “ though I’d about as soon be 
hanged. I can’t go back to school, and then fear 
them as I thought.” 

“ No, Tom, we cannot afford it,” Ursula answered 
very gravely; and Tom turned his face away to 
hide the great shadow clouding his bright eyes. 

“On Tuesday, he says; this is Friday; three 
days. O Ursula I how can I bear it ?” he said ; 
and breaking down very suddenly, Tom leaned 
against a tree and buried his face on his arm. 

“ It will be hard for you and hard for us, dear,” 
said Ursula, in voice very tremulent, “ but if it is 
to make a man of you we must all bear it You 
(i 


98 


Ursula Vivian, 


know, Tom, life cannot be all play. The days for 
work and real living must come sooner or later, 
and it has come sooner to you than to some per- 
haps, that is all.” 

“ I don’t mind the work. I’d work my hands off 
for you, Ursula, if I could only stay at home and 
do it like Geoffrey,” said Tom, rebelliously. “ I’ll 
never get on with Robert ; he won’t let a fellow 
laugh scarcely. I don’t feel as if he were my 
brother at all.” 

What answer could Ursula make to that ? None 
at all. 

“You will keep up a brave heart, Tom, for my 
sake,” she said at last, “and do your best in London. 
Always remember that mamma would like you to 
do your duty, and that I expect it from my brother.” 

Her words touched the better nature of the boy, 
and he flung up his head with a new, bright look of 
resolution in his face. 

“ I will do it, Ursula. You won’t be ashamed of 
me. 1 11 be a man, and, though I am dying of home 
sickness and general misery, I will never give in,” 
he said ; and Ursula laid her arm about his neck 
and kissed him tenderly. Such endearments were 
not common between the Vivians, and meant a 
great deal. Ursula was doing her best to fill her 


Shadow and Sunshine, 


99 


mother’s place, doing her best to speak words of 
strength and comfort to the young brother, for 
whom life was just about to begin. 

“ God bless you, Tom. He will help you to suc- 
ceed,” she said, almost shyly ; for in the past such 
expressions had never crossed her lips, and she was 
not sure how they would be received. Tom looked 
up at her with all his heart in his eyes, and his 
answer was characteristic. 

“ Ursula, you are an out-and-out brick, I declare. 
I didn’t half know you before. Well, it’ll go hard 
with me if I don’t raise a little fun among the 
fellows in London. There’ll be larks going there 
as well as here.” 

Ursula smiled, for Tom was himself again. He 
went back to the hen-house by-and-by to impart 
the news to Fred and Charlie, while Ursula retired 
to the house to fill yet another mother’s duty, viz., 
to examine Tom’s wardrobe, and see what repairs 
and alterations were necessary to fit him for going 
from home. 

Since Ursula returned to the Grange she had 
heard only from Anna Trent, who was busy with 
her painting in London, working to win, like 
Ursula, although she had not such stern necessity 
for an incentive. Isabel Fortescue was away to a 


100 


Ursula Vivian, 


gay watering-place with her family, and was too 
much engaged with the occupations of a young 
lady at the seaside to remember her promise to 
write to her school-fellows. 

The morning after the arrival of Robert’s letter 
brought one to Ursula, addressed in the most lady- 
like handwriting, which had been Mary Duns* 
combe’s chief accomplishment at school. 

Thus it ran— 

Combe House, 

•* Market Drayton, September \% t 7 i . 

‘*My own Ursula, — I would have written to 
you long ago, but I did not know what to say to 
you. Where would I find words to express all I 
feel for you in your terrible, terrible sorrow? I can 
only say, God comfort you, my dear, dear friend, 
and help you to see that what is His will is good. 
Mamma thinks and speaks often about you, as I 
do. If we could only have you here a little while 
we could show you how full of sorrow and 
sympathy all our hearts are for you. I have so 
often thought of you, especially during the last 
few days, for you will be beginning to realise that 
you are the head of the house now, and that you 
need to be father, mother, and sister in one to your 
dear brothers. Oh, my poor darling, what a 


Shadow and Sunshine, 


lOI 


responsibility for you. You will find it hard 
perhaps, at first, especially as your household 
duties will inevitably involve considerable sacrifice 
of your own favourite work. I have felt rebellious 
about it for you, because I know you would be so 
successful in literature ; but I am calming down 
again, when I think it may be God’s leading, that 
in the end, purified and sanctified by sorrow and 
self-abnegation, your works may go forth into the 
world to touch the heart like living water. I 
wonder so how you feel about it. Whether just 
at first you felt wild and wicked, or whether yOu 
were enabled to bear it all calmly and beautifully, 
because it came from God. I had not meant to 
write so much, Ursula, but the words would go 
down. I have had a letter from Anna Trent, but 
none from Isabel, who is at Brighton this month. 
You will be surprised to hear that my brother 
John has given up the idea of travelling altogether, 
and that papa has bought a practice for him at 
Sunnybeach, the village nearest to Isabel’s home, 
Haydon Hall. He will settle there in October, 
and I shall have to take up housekeeping, without 
much knowledge or experience. Now, even I am 
not afraid, for though John is so particular in 
everything he will not be hard on me. After we 


102 


Ursula Vivian. 


are settled, Ursula, I shall expect you to come, and 
you will see Isabel too, for she will be at home. 
That should be a double inducement. I am very 
busy always. * Papa has such a lot of patients 
among the poorer class this autumn, and he likes 
me to visit them as mamma used to do. She has 
not had time to do much in that way for some 
years. Well, I will be done, I think. If you are 
able to write, dearest, I should be so glad, even of 
a little line, saying you are well in health. I dare 
not hope you can be well in spirits. That will 
come in God’s good time. Now, and at all times, 
believe, my Ursula, your sincere and loving friend, 
“Mary Dunscombe.” 

That letter comforted Ursula as nothing else 
could have done. It came just when she was feel- 
ing very bitter about Tom, just in the very moment 
when she was asking herself rebelliously what good 
there could be in the double bereavement, and in 
all the woeful change it involved for her and hers. 

“ God’s leading,” Mary said. Oh, how sweet and 
precious the assurance. It was like balm to her 
aching heart. She stole away upstairs by-and-by, 
and, locking herself in her garret, sat down by the 
window to read the letter again, and to pray once 


Shadow and Sunshine. 


IC3 


more with a tranquil heart for endurance, streng^th, 
and patience. Then she wrote the answer, only 
the line for which Mary craved, because at that 
moment her heart was too full to permit her to 
write of plans and ways and means. 

“ Dear Mary,” she wrote hurriedly, “ God put it 
into your head to write that letter, I believe. It 
came this morning just like a flash of sunlight 
through a cloud. I am well in health, and my 
heart is resting with the great Comforter. Another 
time I will tell you more, something of my struggle 
and victory. — Till then, my friend and sister, I am, 
yours as ever, URSULA VivlAN.” 

In the afternoon, while the boys were away to 
watch from a distance the issue of a great cricket 
match being played on Kessington Common, 
Ursula went out to prune the rose trees a little, 
and to pull up some of the weeds on the broad 
walk in front of the house. She felt too unsettled 
for up garret work, and so had decided to let it 
rest until after Tom’s departure on Tuesday. 
While she was busy with her gardening, and 
humming a hymn to herself, she heard footsteps 
on the avenue, and looked round to see Laurence 
and Agnes Abbot. She put down her scissors 


104 


Ursula Vivian, 


and went forward to meet them, with a frank 
smile and welcome. 

“ I can’t shake hands, at least till I have washed 
them,” she said ; “ but I am very glad to see you, 
especially as I am quite alone. The boys are off 
to the Common.” 

“ We met them,” said Agnes. “ Why don’t you 
put on gloves, Ursula? Don’t you get your hands 
scratched dreadfully poking about among rose- 
bushes and things?” 

“ Yes, but I don’t mind,”^said Ursula. “Are you 
very much shocked at my disregard for the pro- 
prieties of young ladyhood, Mr. Abbot ?” 

Laurence Abbot’s lips parted in his pleasant 
smile. 

“Not at all,” he answered. “You have splendid 
roses here. Miss Ursula. They are much finer 
than ours, which I think get too much of the prun- 
ing-knife.” 

“ Perhaps ours just get leave to blossom every 
year unmolested,” said Ursula. “ Come away in ; 
you must stay tea. I shall order it early.” 

Ursula led the way into the house, the oppres- 
sive stillness of which struck the brother and sister 
very forcibly. It had an empty feeling, too, and 
the tea-table seemed to lack the presence of an 


Shadow and Sunshine* 


105 


older head than Ursula. Yet Agnes Abbot could 
not but think how gracefully and well Ursula ful- 
filled all the duties of the house, and how different 
she was in all respects from the Ursula of old. 

“We shall be quieter than ever next week,” said 
Ursula, trying to speak cheerfully. “ Robert has 
sent for Tom. It is time he was beginning to do 
for himself, especially in the present circumstances, 
but we shall miss him very much.” 

“ I am sure you will. Tom is a very lively young 
man from all accounts,” said Laurence Abbot. 

Agnes laughed. 

“ I shall never forget that day mamma and I 
met Mr. Robinson in the High Street, when he 
could not get his hat off. That was Tom’s doing, 
Ursula.” 

Ursula laughed also. 

“ He is the living embodiment of mischief. I 
shall live in a state of painful suspense regarding 
his movements in London,” said Ursula. “You 
see, Robert will not bear with his nonsense, nor 
relish it as we do here.” 

“ Geoffrey enjoys life under old Aarons, evi- 
dently,” said Laurence. “ I looked into the shop 
the other day and saw him at a piano, with a rapt 
expression on his face. The old gentleman 


io6 


Ursula Vivian, 


nodded violently to me and pointed to him. It is 
amusing to see the interest he takes in Geoffrey.” 

“ I shall never forget Mr. Aarons’ kindness as 
long as I live, and I have constant remorse for the 
tricks I have played on him in my youth,” said 
Ursula, with a laugh which had a tremor in it, 
telling of a deeper feeling underlying it. 

“Aarons junior says Geoffrey will be able to 
play in St. Michael’s in six months,” said Laurence. 
“And that he is a perfect genius. A little more 
tea. Miss Ursula, if you please. It is excellent.” 

“ I beg your pardon ; you must just look after 
yourselves. You see I am such a poor hostess,” 
said Ursula. “Yes, it is a great joy to me that 
Geoffrey has got so good a beginning. At first 
when we were left alone my only thought was 
despair. It is so hard to bear trouble, so easy to 
forget it is ‘God’s leading.* I often wonder He 
bears so long with us.” 

Laurence Abbot looked at Ursula in amaze- 
ment, which had in it something of reverence. 
“When such trouble overtakes me. Miss Ursula,” 
he said very gravely, “I pray I may be able to 
meet it in a spirit like yours.” 

Ursula turned her shining eyes on his face, and 
answered quietly, “It is only such awful trials. 


Shadow and Sunshine, 


107 


and they are awful, which make us aware of our 
own weakness and send us straight to our Father. 
Without Him I think they could not be borne,” 
she said, simply. “ Shall we go outside now for a 
little? The days are so pleasant, and they are 
passing so quickly, one grudges hours spent 
indoors.” 

A pleasant time was spent in the old-fashioned 
garden, and then the brother and sister took their 
leave. 

“You will come again soon, Agnes,” Ursula said 
at parting, “and you also, Mr. Laurence,” she 
added. “ I do not entertain very well, but it is a 
real kindness to come and see me.” 

“I shall be back very soon, I promise you. I 
have had such a pleasant visit,” said Agnes. 
“ Laurence leaves us to-morrow, you know.” 

“ Yes ; but when I come back I shall not forget 
your invitation. Miss Ursula,” said Laurence Abbot, 
looking straight into Ursula’s lovely eyes. “ Shall 
I be welcome ?” 

“ Surely,” smiled Ursula ; but somehow she 
could not meet those grave grey eyes so fearlessly 
as was her wont. 

“ Ursula, I fear you are a fool, my dear,” she 
said to herself as she went into the house. 


io8 


Ursula Vivian. 


“Things have come to a pretty pass when you 
can’t look a young man straight in the face. Yes, 
you are a fool ; but, all the same, you can’t help 
being glad he was so earnest about it, and you 
hope he will come back, that’s all. 



CHAPTER IX, 

AT ST. MICHAEL’S. 

Tuesday morning Tom went away. He 
bore the parting bravely. So did Ursula 
until he was fairly gone, then she let her 
grief have its way. But it was past when Fred 
and Charlie, with very sober faces, returned from 
seeing Tom away, and she was able to talk to 
them cheerfully. 

‘‘Now, boys,” she said, “I want all these ugly 
weeds rooted out of the avenue, and if you would 
do a little bit every day while the holidays last it 
would soon be tidy. Run for your hoes, and do a 
bit this morning, and I’ll give you something very 
nice for dinner.” 

Ursula knew what she was doing when she put 
up her plea for the neglected avenue that morning. 
She had proved by experience that work was the 
best antidote for care, and knew that if she could 



X09 


no 


Ursula Vivian, 


interest the boys in outdoor operations they would 
not be so apt to fret over Tom’s absence. Willing 
and eager to do anything for Ursula, they went off 
to the toolhouse for hoes and a barrow, and, look- 
ing out shortly after, Ursula saw that they were 
working in real earnest, and enjoying it too. 

Then Ursula’s thoughts turned to her own work. 
She had promised the editor of the Family Maga- 
zine to try a long story for its pages, and it was 
already maturing in her mind. She set apart a 
portion of each day to be spent in the garret, 
always reserving the evening free for her brothers. 
She was always in the dining-room when Geoffrey 
came home at seven. Then they would have a 
little music, for Ursula did not think there was 
any want of loving respect for the memory of 
those gone before, though they made the slow 
evening hours pass more quickly and pleasantly 
by listening to Geoffrey’s exquisite playing, or join- 
ing together in the singing of some beautiful hymn. 
Ursula could play well herself, and her voice was 
as clear and sweet as a bell. So the music and 
singing was enjoyed by them all, and sent them to 
bed, I am sure, with lighter hearts than sober talk- 
ing would have done. 

A letter came from Tom in the course of a few 


At St. Michaets, 


III 


days, full of fun and grammatical mistakes. His 
descriptions of the various employes in the Messrs. 
Grimsby’s establishment were a source of consider- 
able amusement to Ursula and the rest. 

“There are six kids downstairs in our lodg- 
ings, and when Robert is out, which he often 
is,” he wrote, “ I bribe old Mother Hill, the land- 
lady, you know, to let me down among them, and 
we do have fun. Hill junior, the eldest of the 
family, a clerk in the city, is an awful swell, and 
gets himself up to kill, regardless of expense. I 
mean to have my fun out of him yet. Tell Fred 
and Charlie, and Tommy Williamson, when you 
see him, that Hill junior is a second edition of 
Robinson, only more so. Robert is speaking of 
seeking quieter quarters, where there’s no kids 
you know, but I hope he won’t. I hope you’re all 
getting on fine, as I am. — I remain, your affec- 
tionate brother, T. Vivian.” 

Then on the blank page was a clever pen-and- 
ink sketch of Hill junior, which showed that 
Tom had not forgotten that part of his education. 

The letter lifted a load from Ursula’s mind, for 
unless Tom were actually in good spirits she knew 
he would not have written in such a tone. 


II2 


Ursula Vivian, 


So things promised brighter for the Vivians. 
The younger boys went back to school, Geoffrey 
continued at Mr. Aarons’, growing fonder and 
more proficient at his work every day, and Ursula 
went on with her story for the Family Magazine, 
It was not all smooth sailing for our young 
authoress. There were days when she grew sick 
of her work, when she felt so miserably conscious 
of her own ability to write something worth 
writing, that she could have tossed the manuscript 
into the fire. She could not work up to her own 
ideal. What author can ? And she could not be 
content to go upon lower ground. In despair, one 
day, she despatched the first eight chapters in its 
rude state to the editor, begging him to read it and 
tell her if he thought she should go on with it ; she 
was so dubious about it herself. It was returned 
in a day or two with the following brief note ; — 

“ Dear Madam, — Go on with your story by all 
means. It will make its mark. — Yours faithfully, 

“ Samuel Mayfair.” 

So Ursula took up the unfinished threads again, 
and wove them into one beautiful web, without a 
flaw or blemish. It was a marvellous production 
for one so young. Yet Ursula felt anything but 


At St. MichaeVs. 


I13 


elation or pride over it. She read it over when it 
was ready for despatch, trying to judge calmly 
and clearly of its merits. But she failed, of 
course. Some of its parts pleased her, but others 
fell very far short of what she thought they should 
be. So one morning, early in December, it was 
despatched to the editor, with sinking of heart. 
She permitted herself a few days’ rest after that, 
and then took up the pen again, for it must know 
no weariness while that two hundred and ten 
pounds remained unpaid. Ideas crowded in upon 
her, but she could not always find appropriate 
language wherein to express them. She was in- 
clined to favour a high-flown style, the absurdity 
of which was made plain to her when she re-read 
it. Then she would begin to re-write, and go to 
the opposite extreme. In the end she generally 
managed to hit the happy medium, but it was the 
outcome of a labour and thought which none can 
guess save those who have experienced it. 

A month slipped away. And Ursula, unac- 
quainted with the ways of editors and publishers, 
grew heart-sick with hope deferred. When the 
business-like letter at last arrived, one morning in 
December, when they were all at breakfast, she 
was frightened to open it, and her fingers trembled 
H 


Ursula Vivian, 


1 14 


as she broke the seal. But the manuscript was not 
returned, so there was hope for her yet. I will 
transcribe it here, in the hope it may prove a tithe 
as interesting to you as it was to Ursula. 

“ Paternoster Row, London, 
December \^th^ . 

“Dear Madam, — I have finished the perusal of 
your story, and am wholly satisfied therewith. It 
surpasses my expectation, and is undeniable proof 
of your ability. If you will but pursue diligently 
the line you have taken up, the world will hear of 
you yet. I herewith beg to offer you the sum of 
fifty pounds for permission to print it in the pages 
of the Family Magazine. When it has run its 
course there, it might with great advantage to you 
be published in book form. Anyway, it is sure to 
be popular, for it possesses the charm of simplicity 
and perfect naturalness. Should this offer be ac- 
ceptable to you, upon receipt of a communication 
to that effect, I shall enclose cheque to you and 
make immediate arrangements for its appearance 
in the new series to begin with the year. — I am, 
Madam, yours faithfully, S. Mayfair.” 

When Ursula read the letter to the end she let 
it flutter from her hand, and leaning her arms on 


At St. MtchaeVs. 


115 


the table, hid her face upon them. Her joy was 
too much for her. The boys looked at her in con- 
sternation. 

“ Has anything happened to Tom ?” was the 
threefold cry. 

Then Ursula lifted her face, which was radiant 
through her tears. 

“ Oh no, boys, something very different. I 
must tell you, I suppose. Well, I’ve written a 
story, and this is a letter from the editor, and he 
offers me for it, and I was so glad I could not 
help crying — that’s all.” 

Blank amazement sat on the faces of the three ; 
then Charlie, remembering perhaps what Tom 
would have done had he been with them, sprang 
up and cried, “Hip! hip! hurrah!” Presently the 
others joined him, and Ursula had quite an ovation, 
the noise of which caused Betty to pause in her 
work, and wonder what it was all about. Such 
explosions had not been so common in the house 
since Tom went away. 

Needless to say the offer was gratefully accepted 
at once, and in due time the cheque arrived. 
Ursula went to the town to cash it, and returned 
with five crisp ten pound-notes, which were care- 
fully locked up in the safe in the study, the nucleus 


ii6 


Ursula Vivian. 


of the ;^2io. It was a very good beginning, she 
thought, with pride and joy, and yet in the middle 
of it all there came a terrible aching at her 
heart, because whatever success the future might 
hold for her she must be content to miss always 
the sweet smile — the glad, loving pride of her 
whose approval would have been Ursula’s best 
reward. It is ever thus. God wills that in this 
life there should be no joy without its attendant 
pain, no rose without its thorn, so that we may the 
more firmly fix our thoughts on the sure hope that 
is to come. 

Her success gave her an impetus to go on with 
her new story, and her work grew easier and 
pleasanter for her every day. The cold winter 
weather forbade her writing in her garret unless a 
fire was lighted in it; but being a prudent, careful 
housewife, Ursula did not see any necessity to 
burn coals solely for her own use when there was 
a fire in the dining-room all day. So the writing 
materials were carried downstairs, and “ up garret” 
deserted till summer. 

While Ursula was busy with her literary labours, 
Geoffrey was equally so with his music. Ursula 
noticed a daily improvement in his playing, and 
she began to think Mr. Aarons might not be far 



(p. iiy.) 








At St. MichaePs. 


I19 


wrong in thinking Geofii'ey would soon be ready 
for St. Michael’s. 

One night he came home looking unusually 
glorified and excited. 

“ I’m to play in St. Michael’s on Christmas 
Sunday, Ursula. Mr. Franz asked me to do it 
long ago, and I have been practising every night 
with the choir. I didn’t tell you for fear I 
shouldn’t get proficient enough, you know, and 
you would be disappointed.” 

Ursula grew more excited than her brother. 
Her cheeks flushed and her eyes danced with 
pleasure. 

“And Mr. Franz thinks you are proficient- 
enough ?” she asked, eagerly. 

“He says I shall do far better than he could 
do,” said Geoffrey, modestly. 

“O Ursula! to think I shall actually play on the 
grand organ in St. Michael’s on a Sunday, and 
Christmas too,” he said, with a strange trembling 
in his voice. Then he broke down all at once, and 
sobbed for very joy. “Mr. St. John, the choir- 
master, you know, was afraid at first,” he said, by- 
and-by. “ But now he’s more anxious for it than 
Mr. Franz, and he hopes I’ll be the organist 
altogether some day.” 


120 


Ursula Vivian. 


“ So you will, soon enough,” said Ursula, 
emphatically. 

Geoffrey shook his head. 

“Not for years and years. I should never 
survive it, any way.” 

“Christmas Sunday!” re-echoed Ursula. “Every- 
body goes to St. Michael’s on Christmas Sunday. 
The family will be there from Aldencotes, and the 
Earl and Countess of Derrington, and all the 
aristocracy. O Geoffrey ! you must do well. It 
will be the making of you.” 

“ I shall be shaking with fear till I have played 
a few notes, then I shall forget all about where I 
am, likely,” said Geoffrey. “ I wish Tom could be 
down. He won’t be coming for Christmas, I 
suppose ?” 

“No, Geoffrey, we could scarcely expect it. He 
will need to be content with a full and detailed 
account,” returned Ursula. 

During the ten days which intervened till 
Christmas, Ursula was so much occupied thinking 
of Geoffrey that she could not fix her mind on her 
own work. 

That Sunday morning they were all up early, 
and Ursula was very particular both in her own 
dressing and in looking after that of the boys. 


At St MickaePs, 


I2I 


Geoffrey looked well. He was a handsome lad, 
and nobody could ever talc^ him for anything but 
a musician, Ursula told him, laughingly ; and truly 
the refined, earnest face, the dreamy blue eyes, and 
the curling fair hair, gave him a look very different 
from that of his rosy-cheeked, rollicking brothers. 
He could not eat any breakfast, and Ursula did 
not press him. He left half-an-hour before them, 
and they followed more leisurely, yet they were 
among the first to enter the church. From the 
Grange pew there was a good view of the organist, 
and Ursula could not take her eyes off him. He 
sat very still, looking at his instrument, Mr. Franz 
beside him. It was not time to play the voluntary 
yet. 

The church filled rapidly. All the aristocracy 
of the county flocked to St. Michael’s on Christmas 
morning, for in addition to Mr. Gresham’s reputa- 
tion as a preacher, the music was always something 
worth hearing. By-and-by, when the seats were 
nearly all full, Ursula saw Mr. Franz touch 
Geoffrey’s arm, and she held her breath in an agony 
of suspense. Only for a moment, for presently 
there stole through the building the sweet, grand 
strains of the Christmas hymn, played without 
doubt by a master-hand. All eyes were turned 


122 


Ursula Vivian, 


towards the boy-musician, and Ursula saw surprise 
and incredulity on hundreds of faces. Never had 
such music been heard in St. Michael’s since a 
certain great composer had inaugurated the organ, 
ten years before. Franz Aarons could manipulate 
the keys skilfully enough, but he had not Geoffrey 
Vivian’s soul for his profession. Ursula had to 
bow her head often to hide the tears brought by 
the music, and by the thought of what a joy it 
would have been to her mother to have been a 
listener with her. 

At the close of the service Ursula and the boys 
went out leisurely, and they were listeners to many 
flattering remarks. In the porch Mrs. Gresham 
was speaking to the Earl and Countess, and the 
organist was the subject. 

We must have him up to the Castle ; his touch 
is divine,” the Countess said. 

“Who is he?” 

“A son of Vivian of the Grange. Hush, that’s 
his sister, see. She is literary, I have heard. A 
remarkable family, and orphans too, Lady Derrincr- 
ton.” 

Ursula heard no more, for presently she was 
taken possession of by the Abbots. Laurence was 
the last to touch her hand, and to utter his words 



CHRISTMAS MORIIINS. 












At St. MichaePs. 


125 


of manly greeting and congratulation. They stood 
a few minutes talking together, then Ursula see- 
ing Mr. St. John, the choir-master, and Geoffrey 
beckoning to her at the church door, bade them 
good-bye. 

“ I am coming to the Grange, Miss Ursula,” 
Laurence Abbot came back to say. “ I only got 
down from Oxford last night, you know.” 

“All right,” said Ursula, merrily; “good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye, Ursula,” said Laurence Abbot ; “ I 
never spent such an interminable quarter at college 
in my life. Perhaps you can guess the reason ” 


CHAPTER X. 


ON BUSINESS. 



HRISTMAS passed pleasantly for the 
little family at Kessington Grange. 
The Abbots often dropped in upon 
them, and there were several quiet tea-drinkings 
at Kessington Mount, at which the boys forgot to 
be in awe of Doctor Abbot, and marvelled greatly 
to find what a “jolly old fellow” (as they ex- 
pressed it) he could be in his own home. 

The Countess of Derrington did not appear to 
have forgotten her desire to see more of the boy- 
musician, for one day there came a note for 
Geoffrey bearing the Derrington crest, and which 
contained her ladyship’s compliments, coupled 
with a request that he would come up to the 
Castle that afternoon. Geoffrey, shy by nature, 
did not appear to care about it, but Ursula was 
urgent for him to go. 


On Business, 


127 


** Lady Derrington is a great musician herself, 
and there will be glorious instruments at the 
Castle. You need not be afraid, Geoffrey. She 
will not patronize you,” said Ursula, adding a 
little proudly, “ the Vivians are as old a family as 
the Derringtons, and I don’t doubt they visited 
each other generations ago, though they don’t 
now.” 

Geoffrey laughed at his sister’s argument, but 
departed to get himself ready. Not many minutes 
after, Ursula was amazed to behold a carriage 
sweeping up the avenue, and somewhat confused 
to recognise it as the equipage from the Castle. 

Nevertheless, she managed to keep calm, and 
when Betty, in great confusion, ushered in the 
Countess herself, Ursula was able to receive her 
with a grace and self-possession her ladyship was 
very quick to notice. She was a little woman, 
past middle life, still retaining the prettiness and 
dainty winning ways which had won her husband’s 
heart. 

“ Good morning. Miss Vivian,” she said, with a 
charming smile. “ I ought to apologise, I suppose, 
but perhaps you will forgive my intrusion. I was 
so afraid your brother would not come that I 
have come to fetch him. I have a special reason 


128 


Ursula Vivian. 


for asking, for Herr Baerstein is to be with us this 
evening, and I should like him to meet our youth- 
ful genius.” 

Ursula smiled. 

“You are very kind, Lady Derrington ; Geoffrey 
is just dressing, I think,” answered Ursula. “ He 
is very shy, but I persuaded him to go.” 

“That was right,” said the Countess, heartily. 
Then her voice lowered, and she looked straight 
into Ursula’s face with motherly sympathetic 
eyes. 

“My dear, I was very sorry to hear from Mrs. 
Gresham of your sad trouble ; you have my heart- 
felt sympathy.” 

“Thank you,” answered Ursula, very simply; 
and there was need of no more. 

“ The world will hear of your brother yet,” said 
her ladyship, by-and-by. “And of you too, if 
report speaks truly,” she added, with a little sly 
smile. 

Ursula’s face flushed deep crimson. She had not 
thought her secret was public yet. 

“ Forgive me, I have touched a tender spot,” said 
her ladyship, hastily. “ I am an inquisitive old 
woman, but I love young people, perhaps because I 
have none of my own.” 


On Business, 


129 


** There is nothing to forgive,” answered Ursula, 
in her frank, genuine way. " It is I who am fool- 
ishly sensitive ; here is Geoffrey.” 

Her ladyship turned to greet the young musician 
with a frank cordiality which removed all his 
shyness at once. 

“ I have come for you, fearing you might decline 
my invitation,” she laughed. “You will not 
decline to escort me home, surely ?” 

“ Surely not. Lady Derrington,” answered 
Geoffrey. “ I am much indebted to you.” 

“ Nay, the debt is mine. I am selfish ; I want: 
to hear you play. I am passionately fond of 
music, and play a little indifferently myself. Well, 
shall we go?” she asked, and turning to Ursula, 
she said, “ Perhaps you will one day be induced to 
visit us with your brother?” Ursula drew herself 
up a little ; she could not help it. 

“ Nay, my dear,” said the Countess, good- 
humouredly, “ you need not freeze. The Vivians 
and the Derringtons were friends of yore ; why 
should they not be again ? Well, I shall come to 
you if you will not come to me.” 

So saying the little lady kissed Ursula on the 
cheek, and withdrew to her carriage under 
Geoffrey’s care. 

I 


130 


Ursula Vivian. 


So it came to pass that day that Kessington had 
the sight of the Derrington carriage sweeping 
through its streets, containing Lady Derrington 
and Geoffrey Vivian, Mr. Aarons’ shopboy, sitting 
side by side. It would suffice the gossips for many 
a day. 

Geoffrey came home late in the evening, bringing 
glowing accounts of his visit to Averham Castle. 
Herr Baerstein had taken such an interest in him, 
and promised her ladyship to do all in his power 
for him by-and-by, when the time came for him to 
leave Kessington and seek his fortune out in the 
world. 

That was the beginning of a warm friendship 
between the Castle and the Grange, and it was not 
very long before Ursula was persuaded to accept 
the invitations given to her so kindly and frankly. 
It made a great talk in Kessington, but Miss 
Vivian was held in such high estimation that even 
the envious forgot to be spiteful, and said she 
deserved it all. There were no accounts run with 
trades-people now. Everything Miss Vivian bought 
was paid for with ready-money. To her the word 
j debt was a bugbear, which she would keep far 
away from her all her life. 

Meanwhile, her new story was progressing. It 


On Business, 


131 


was a more ambitious effort than her former one, 
and she had resolved to send it to one of the best 
publishers in London. She had thought of taking 
it herself, but when the time drew near, her natural 
shyness came over her, and it was despatched by 
post to seek its fate. It was April before it was 
finished ; and, when the strain was off her mind, 
Ursula felt languid and wearied. Her head 
troubled her somewhat, and she began to con- 
template seriously accepting Mary Dunscombe’s 
invitation, which had been renewed in every letter 
since their settlement at Sunny Beach. She had 
sense enough to know that, in her own best interests, 
change and rest were necessary for mind and body 
at times. She would wait, however, till she saw 
the result of her new venture. 

Before a fortnight elapsed the answer came. It 
was not quite satisfactory. The publishers seemed 
to think highly of the work, and yet to be dubious 
of its success if published. 

“ It is crude in some parts, and would be the 
better for being re-written. Shall we return the 
manuscript for that purpose?” 

Ursula was puzzled to understand what they 
meant. Nothing was said about accepting or 
declining it So, after a day’s consideration, she 


*32 


Ursula Vivian^ 


made up her mind to journey to London and seek 
an interview with the publishers. It would be 
more satisfactory to all concerned. She read the 
letter to the boys that night, and they all agreed 
that it would be the best plan ; so, without sending 
notice to either of her brothers, Ursula proceeded 
to London on the following day. Fearing lest her 
courage should fail her, if she had time to think 
over it, she took a hansom at the station, and 
drove directly to the establishment of the Messrs. 
Farrel, in Paternoster Row. In considerable fear 
and trembling, she gave her name to one of the 
clerks, and asked him to take it to the principal. 
In a few seconds he returned, and requested her to 
follow him to Mr. Farrel’s private room. Ursula 
was shown into the presence of the publisher, and 
lifted her veil somewhat confusedly to meet the 
gaze of a pair of very kindly eyes, which put her 
at her ease at once. He was an old man of 
benevolent aspect, very different in every respect 
from the gruff and forbidding individual Ursula 
had conjured up in her own mind. 

“ Good morning,” he said, heartily. “ So this is 
Miss Vivian. You are very much younger than I 
expected.” 

“ Am I ?” 


On Business. 


133 


Ursula smiled as she asked the question, that 
rare smile which so beautified her face ! 

“ I received your letter yesterday, sir, and as I 
did not feel that I understood it rightly, I thought 
the best thing would be to come and see about it” 

“ That was right. I did not write the letter, Miss 
Vivian. My son wrote it, and I did not see it 
before it went I told him to ask if you had any 
objections to re-write it, and curtail the opening 
chapters a little ; they are too diffuse. I liked the 
story very much, and I am very willing to publish 
it for you in any way we may arrange about” 

Ursula’s face flushed with pleasure. 

"Thank you, sir,” she said, in her simple way ; 
and the publisher looked at her curiously. 

"Pardon the question, but I regret to observe 
your deep mourning ; have you lost a near rela- 
tive ?” he asked, kindly. 

" I lost my father and mother within a week, 
sir,” answered Ursula, trying to speak cr^mly. 
"And it is an absolute necessity that I should 
earn something for myself.” 

The publisher looked at her most compassionately. 

" I am glad you have told me this,” he said. 
"Well, we will have a look at this story, and you 
can take it away with you.” 


134 


Ursula Vivian, 


So saying, Mr. Farrel took from one of the 
drawers the bundle of manuscript which Ursula 
had despatched in fear and trembling a few weeks 
before. He turned over the pages one by one, 
pointing out what he thought might be altered to 
improve, talking of it so kindly and appreciatively 
that Ursula felt her heart glowing with gratitude 
towards him. 

“Do you return to Kessington to-day?” he 
asked, when the interview was ended. “ If you 
would stay a day or two with us my wife would be 
pleased.” 

“Oh, thank you very much, but I have two 
brothers in town, Mr. Farrel,” returned Ursula, 
gratefully. “ You are very kind, sir, to a stranger.” 

The publisher smiled a little sadly. 

“The kindness is nothing. I had a daughter 
just your age. Miss Vivian. She was our only 
one, but God took her. You remind me of her 
very much. My wife would like to see you on 
that account, as well as on your own.” 

“I will come next time, sir. Perhaps I shall 
bring the story to London myself when it is 
finished. I shall be going south then at any rate, 
to visit a friend in Kent.” 

“We should be very pleased indeed,” said Mr. 


On Business. 


135 


Farrel ; then he shook hands warmly, and Ursula 
went away, pledged to visit a lady whom she had 
never seen, but whose sorrow made a bond be- 
tween them. 

It was five o’clock when Ursula reached her 
brothers’ lodgings in Allanton Road. Mrs. Hill, a 
weary-eyed, anxious-looking woman, looked at 
her curiously, but showed her into the sitting-room 
at once. 

" I am Miss Vivian,” Ursula said. “I have come 
unexpectedly. When will my brothers be in, Mrs 
Hill?” 

“Half-past six, miss. Will you be staying till 
to-morrow ?” 

“Yes, if you can accommodate me.” 

“Surely, Miss Vivian. Come upstairs; my 
three-pair back’s empty just now, and you’ll get 
the bedroom, and welcome, for Master Tom’s sake.” 

Ursula smiled, and followed the landlady to the 
mysterious region of the three-pair back. It was 
a dingy little room ; indeed, all Mrs. Hill’s apart- 
ments were dingy, but they were clean and com- 
fortable in their way. 

“If you could get me a cup of tea, Mrs. Hill, I 
would be so much obliged. I am too tired and 
hungry to wait till my brothers come home.” 


Ursula Vivian, 


135 


“Yes, miss, with pleasure. Just come down- 
stairs when you’re ready,” said Mrs. Hill, and 
bolted off downstairs to prepare refreshment for 
the unexpected visitor. 

In a few minutes Ursula returned to the sitting- 
room, and proceeded to examine it well, feeling an 
intense interest in the place where her brothers 
spent so much of their leisure tim?. 

There was not much to be seen. It contained 
the usual boarding-house sofa and chairs arranged 
primly around the room, the usual faded carpet 
on the floor, the usual dingy hangings at the 
windows, the usual cheap prints on the walls, and 
cheap ornaments on the mantel. It was not a 
pretty room, nor one which a woman of any taste 
would choose for an abiding-place. The rent was 
moderate, and therefore it suited Robert Vivian. 
Ere long Mrs. Hill brought in the tea tray, and 
Ursula took a hearty meal. Then she sauntered 
to the window, and looked out upon the quiet 
thoroughfare, with its strip of dusty grass and 
stunted trees over the way. 

The minutes passed slowly till half-past six, and 
punctually at that time Ursula beheld the two 
coming together down the middle of the street. 
Her eyes dwelt most fondly on Tom’s face, and 


On Business^ 


137 


she felt her heart beat quicker at the thought of 
the meeting. Robert opened the door with his 
own key, and came directly to the sitting-room, 
while Tom as usual tumbled down to the kitchen 
for a word with the baby. 

“Ursula!” exclaimed Robert Vivian, as much 
surprised as it was in his nature to be, “ how and 
why are you here ?” 

“ On private business,” said Ursula, gaily. “ I’ll 
tell you about it after. Aren’t you glad to see 
me?” 

“Yes, very,” said Robert, looking as if he meant 
it. Then he kissed his sister, and went out to call 
Tom. 

“I hear two people speaking upstairs, Mrs. Hill,” 
said Tom, following the landlady up with the. tea; 
“ I hope it isn’t that humbugging old fellow in to 
tea.” 

Tom Vivian was altogether regardless of pro- 
prieties, and stated his opinion of his brother’s 
friend, with unflinching candour, at all times and 
in all company. 

But at the landing Tom heard the strange voice 
again, and in a moment he had bounded past Mrs. 
Hill, and burst into the sitting-room. 

“Ursula, as I’m alive! Oh, I say, what a jolly 


138 


Ursula Vivian. 


old lark. It isn’t you, old girl, is it? I don’t 
believe it,” he- got out breathlessly, then his feel- 
ings got the better of him entirely, and he cried 
like a baby. 



CHAPTER XI. 

ANNA TRENT. 

CAME on publishing business,” said 
Ursula, when the first excitement was 
over, and they drew into the table for 
tea. ** And I can stay till to-morrow.” 

“Only till to-morrow!” exclaimed Tom, with a 
grimace. 

Ursula nodded. 

“Yes, but I’m coming back soon. My story 
requires some alterations before it is fit for publi- 
cation, Robert,” said Ursula, turning to her elder 
brother ; “ I can do them in a week or two.” 

“ Couldn’t you stay here, Ursula ?” Robert asked ; 
“it seems a needless expense incurring another 
journey.” 

Always about expense, Ursula thought, and 
wondered whether years would make her so careful 
over £ s. d. She hoped not 



*39 


140 


Ursula Vivian. 


“I need to come at any rate, Robert,” she 
answered; “I am going to Kent to stay a fortnight 
with one of my school friends. I have not been 
well for some time, and Doctor Hall advised a 
change to the seaside.” 

Robert had no more to say. Looking at his 
sister he was forced to admit that she looked thin 
and worn, and perhaps she was taking precautions 
in time. 

“ I have a friend in London, Robert,” said 
Ursula, by-and-by. “ Her address is Parkside 
Crescent. Is it far from here } Could I call for her 
to-night, do you think ? I should like it very much.” 

“Run round to the stationer’s, Tom, and ask a 
loan of the directory,” said Robert. “ I know 
nothing of the streets about here, Ursula. It may 
be quite near us.” 

Tom darted off like an arrow, then Ursula turned 
to her brother eagerly. 

“ How is Tom doing, Robert?” 

“Better than I expected,” he answered, drily. 
“The firm seems to have taken a fancy to him. 
He works well enough, but the tricks he plays on 
the others are scandalous. He surely had not 
been properly checked at home. The habit has 
grown upon him till it cannot be overcome.” 


Anna Trent, 


141 


“Tom’s tricks are harmless,” Ursula ventured to 
say. “ He cannot help his mischievous nature.” 

" It is to be hoped he will sober down as he grows 
older. Well, Ursula, are the Kessington trades- 
people satisfied now 

“Yes,” answered Ursula, and taking her purse 
from her pocket she counted out five notes and 
handed them to her brother. 

“There, Robert, that is my first payment. I 
brought it with me. It is as well you should have 
it ; it is safer with you.” 

Robert Vivian took the notes in silence, and 
fingered them almost lovingly. 

“You make money fast, Ursula,” was all he said. 

Ursula smiled a little bitterly. 

“Not without working for it, Robert; how 
hardly you cannot guess ! But I hope to be free of 
debt in a year, or little more.” 

“ ‘ Out of debt, out of danger,’ is my motto,” said 
Robert Vivian. “ If I were a rich man, Ursula, I 
would not take this ; as it is I feel it due to myself 
to accept it.” 

“ Of course, our bargain was made,” Ursula said, 
and rose. 

The old feeling of restlessness, impatience even, 
which used to come upon her in the presence of her 


142 


Ursula Vivian, 


elder brother was rising in her breast. The fear in 
her heart that he was making Mammon his god 
made her brave to speak a word in season. 

“ Robert,” she said, timidly, I am afraid some- 
times when I hear you speak of money. It is not 
ours, remember — it is God’s, held in trust for Him ; 
it is not worthy our worship — scarcely of our 
thought, except how we may best use it for 
Him.” 

Robert Vivian’s head was turned away, and at 
that moment Tom burst into the room ; and Ursula 
never knew how her word of sisterly counsel had 
been received. 

The directory was duly examined, and Parkside 
Crescent discovered to be within easy walking dis- 
tance of Allanton Road. 

“ Tom will take you round, Ursula,” said Robert 
“ I promised to look in on my friend to-night. 
When shall I come for you ?” 

*‘If I am not home at nine, you may come,” 
answered Ursula, and went upstairs for her hat. 

“Oh, I say, Ursula, how really jolly it is to see 
you again,” said Tom, thrusting his arm into hers, 
when they went out into the street “I never 
knew how much I wanted to see you till to-night, 
you know.” 


Anna Trent 


143 


"You don’t know how we miss you at home, 
Tom,” said Ursula, with a sigh. 

" It is a great joy to me to hear from Robert 
that you are really working at business.” 

Tom whistled. 

" Did he say that ? He’s always abusing me for 
something. I’m glad he’ll admit that to you; 
anyway, he never does to me.” 

" Hush, Tom !” said Ursula, not quite liking the 
tone. 

“ Oh, I know you want to preach, Ursula, but 
I must have it out. ‘ Robert’s awfully mean. If 
I’d as much money as him I’d sink jvith shame to 
grind down Mother Hill the way he does. She’s 
honest, though she’s miserable and dingy to look at, 
and though there are so many kids. Would you 
believe it, he knows the price of butter and tea 
and sugar and greengroceries, and everything. It 
makes me sick to see him going over the weekly 
bills, as if he thought everybody was conspiring to 
cheat him out of a halfpenny. I know you’re real 
mad, but I’d have burst if I hadn’t told you.” 

What could Ursula say ? Silence was best. 

" Oh, I say, though it’s prime at business. I do 
like the governors. They’re awfully kind to me, 
even when I play tricks. I can’t help it, Ursula.” 


144 


Ursula Vivian, 


“You might help such an abundant use of slang, 
Tom ; it is not an elegant embellishment to con- 
versation.” 

“Oh, come; one word’s as good as another. 
Don’t they ever talk slang in your stories, Ursula ? 
’cos if they don’t they won’t be like real people. 
Here’s Parkside Crescent. Who are you going to 
see ?” 

“Anna Trent She was at school with me at 
Aldborough.” 

“ Oh yes, I remember. Well, shall I wait for you 
outside?” 

“ Oh no, Tom ; I can find my way round nicely 
alone. But if she is at home I shall wait for Robert. 
Good-bye, just now,” said Ursula. 

“ Good-bye. It seems a horrid shame for you to 
go visiting when you’ve only one night I think 
I’ll go home and pack up to go back to Kessington 
with you to-morrow,” said Tom, and went whistling 
away. 

Ursula found the number she sought, and going 
up the few steps to the door rang the bell. In a 
minute a servant answered the summons, and, in 
answer to her request to see Miss Trent, ushered 
her into the drawing-room, and she asked the 
visitor’s name. 


Anna Trento 


145 


“ Simply say, an old friend wishes to see her,” 
Ursula said ; and while the girl was absent she 
glanced round the pretty room, seeing on the walls 
many specimens of Anna’s talent. She could 
almost fancy, too, that Anna’s tasteful fingers had 
been at work in the arrangement of the room. 

In a few minutes she heard a light footfall on the 
stair, and the door opened to admit the slight droop- 
ing figure and sweet, patient face of Anna Trent. 

“O Ursula!” she said, “I am so glad, so very 
glad to see you.” 

There was no mistaking the welcome ; no mis- 
taking the clinging, loving pressure of the arm about 
her neck. To at least this one of her schoolfellows 
Ursula was dear as of yore. 

“ I was in London on business — a flying visit, 
Anna,” said Ursula, by-and-by. “ But I could not 
go without seeing you.” 

"I am glad you could not,” answered Anna. 
“Poor Ursula, you look so old and worn and sad. 
I am so sorry for you, dear !” 

Ursula nodded. 

“Don’t talk like that, Anna; I don’t want to 
break down to-night. How have you been } You 
look ill and pale, as if you had been working at 
your easel very hard.” 

K 


146 


Ursula Vivian, 


“So I have, and mamma has been very ailing 
and fretting about the ship — my father’s, you 
know. It is a few days overdue, and she always 
fears the worst. It is a terrible thing to have dear 
ones at sea, Ursula.” 

At that moment a loud and peremptory ringing 
of a bell caused Anna to start and redden. 

“ That is mamma’s bell, Ursula. Excuse me just 
a moment,” said Anna, and left the room. She 
was not many minutes gone. “ Can you take off 
your hat and stay a little ?” she asked when she 
came in ; and Ursula fancied the wearied look had 
deepened on her face. “ Mamma would like to see 
you.” 

“ Thank you, Anna, I shall be very glad to stay,” 
returned Ursula frankly ; and Anna led the way to 
her own bedroom. 

“You must not mind, though mamma talks 
crossly, Ursula,” she said, flushing a little. “ She 
is far from well, and very anxious about papa and 
the boys.” 

“Why should I mind, Anna, my dear? I am 
concerned to see you, you look so ill and worn.” 

“ Oh, I am quite well,” said Anna, smiling 
faintly. “ If you are ready, Ursula, we will go 
down. Mamma is in the dining-room.” 


Anna Trento 


147 


Ursula followed her friend down-stairs, marvel- 
ling much what it was that made her apparently so 
ill at ease. 

The dining-room was a large and pleasant room, 
but Ursula had not time to look about her ; her 
attention was so arrested by the lady lying on the 
couch. That she was in poor health was evident 
from the paleness and thinness of her face, but the 
peevish, discontented expression was very painful 
to witness. 

“This is Ursula Vivian, mamma,” said Anna, 
gently. 

Mrs. Trent held out her hand languidly to the 
visitor, and bade Anna place a chair for her by the 
couch. 

“You see a sad, poor wretch here. Miss Vivian,” 
she said. “ A piece of useless lumber, nothing but 
a burden in the world.” 

Anna’s eyes filled, and turning away she busied 
herself at the work-basket on the table. 

“ I am sorry you feel so ill, Mrs. Trent,” Ursula 
answered bluntly, for she was beginning to have 
an inkling of the truth, and to know something of 
Anna’s work. 

“ Yes, it is a great trial to a woman of an active 
temperament to be laid helpless as I am,” continued 


148 


Ursula Vivian, 


the invalid, in her grumbling, querulous tones. “ A 
great trial, too, to a sensitive spirit to be a burden 
on those from whom we have a right to expect 
consideration and kindness.” 

Ursula was silent, feeling much for Anna, and 
not knowing what to say. 

“ Has Anna told you that, in all probability, the 
sea has claimed her father and brother at last?” 
she said, burying her face in her handkerchief. 

“Anna told me Captain Trent’s ship was a few 
days overdue; but, Mrs. Trent, there is no ground 
for supposing that they are lost !” 

“You don’t know anything of the agony a 
sailor’s wife has to endure. Miss Vivian,” said Mrs. 
Trent resignedly. “I often wish I had Anna’s 
stoical indifference, but my feelings are so acute. 
I shudder at every blast of wind, picturing the 
wreck of the BosphorusP 

Ursula glanced at Anna compassionately. Her 
face was deadly pale, her fingers trembling at her 
work. 

“Anna, will you order supper?” said Mrs. Trent. 
“ Miss Vivian, if you will stay all night I shall be 
pleased, though I am not able to see personally 
after your comfort.” 

“ Oh, thanks,” said Ursula hastily. “ I shall stay 


Anna Trent* 


149 


with my brothers, Mrs. Trent. They board round 
in Allanton Road. My elder brother will call for 
#ne at nine.” 

“ Oh, then we shall wait for him ; but, Anna, go 
down and see that Jane has something nice,” said Mrs. 
Trent, and Anna slipped obediently from the room. 

“Anna means well, I believe; but she is very 
careless and a little selfish, as most young people 
are,” said the mother. “ She would sit all day at 
her painting, Miss Vivian; positively she would, if I 
was not very firm with her, because her father is 
proud of her work of course, and praises her for it 
He would rather see Anna at her easel any day 
than helping about the house. That is the selfish- 
ness of men. Miss Vivian.” 

“ I don’t know anything about the selfishness of 
men, Mrs. Trent,” said Ursula bluntly, “ but if 
Anna is careless and selfish now she has changed 
very much in a year. She was a kind of daily 
sermon of meekness and gentleness and unselfish 
patience to us girls at Aldborough.” 

Mrs. Trent smiled a little scornfully. 

“Yes, Anna always makes a good impression 
outside. I was sorry to hear of your sorrow, Miss 
Vivian. You have a great responsibility on your 
head now.” 


Ursula Vivian, 


ISO 


‘*Yes, but God has helped me hitherto, Mrs. 
Trent,” Ursula answered, with simple reverence. 

“Ah yes, God is a great Helper. Without Hifti 
I could not bear my cross so patiently and accept 
all my trials so resignedly. I am glad you have 
found the true Helper, Miss Vivian.” 

Ursula hated herself for the feeling of anger 
and contempt which crept into her heart, but to 
her such words from these selfish lips seemed little 
short of mockery. 

Anna’s was the daily cross, hers the many trials ; 
and Ursula wondered no longer at her pale, worn 
face, and listless manner. 

At ten minutes past nine Robert came, and was 
received with languid cordiality by Mrs. Trent. 
Ursula observed how keenly his eyes rested on 
Anna’s sweet face, and also how he watched her at 
supper, as if he felt much interested in her. He 
exerted himself to be agreeable, and Ursula mar- 
velled at his success. She had never seen her 
reticent brother come so far out of his shell. 

It was ten o’clock when Ursula rose to go 
upstairs. 

“ Come into my den, Ursula, till I show you my 
picture,” Anna whispered, when they left the room. 

Ursula nodded, and the two girls proceeded up 


Anna Trent 


15 


to the top-flat of the house, and Anna opened the 
door of a little chamber with a window in the roof. 
She struck a light, and, lifting the cover from the 
easel, said, with a curious mixture of shyness and 
pride : — 

Do you like it, Ursula?” 

“ Like it ! O Anna !” answered Ursula, and her 
voice broke. 

The subject was an ambitious one for a young 
artist, but it was a lovely picture: ** Jesus at the 
grave of Lazarus.” The colouring was exquisite ; 
the figure fairly drawn ; the expression on the face 
caught with marvellous success. 

“ Perhaps it is presumptuous, Ursula,” Anna 
whispered, but the idea grew and grew upon me 
till I had to go on with it. I like it very much ; it 
is better far than I dared to hope. I prayed, 
Ursula, that I might be helped to do it well. Do 
you think it will comfort anyone to look at it ?” 

“ It has comforted me, Anna,” answered Ursula. 
•* Looking upon it we know we are permitted to 
weep for dear ones gone before, because Jesus 
wept.” 

“That is what I wanted to show, Ursula,” said 
Anna, in a voice of deep content, and there was a 
little silence. 


152 


Ursula Vivian. 


“ I hoped to have it finished in the spring, but 
mamma being so ill, I had little time. Besides, 
she thinks it waste of time painting ; so you see I 
have something to contend with.” 

“Something! You make me ashamed, Anna. 
I have grumbled often, but my lot is easier than 
yours.” 

“It is ready for papa to see when he comes. 
He will like it ; but if mamma’s fears are well- 
grounded, O Ursula, I shall not be able to bear 
it!” said Anna, her lips quivering sorely. “The 
constant anxiety and suspense is so hard to bear, 
and then I have to cheer up mamma. Then she 
says I have no feelings. I sometimes don’t know 
what to do, Ursula, and I have to lock myself up 
here and pray for strength.” 

“ God give you it more and more, my darling,” 
Ursula whispered. Then in silence she left the 
studio and returned to the dining-room, where, to 
Ursula’s amazement, she found Robert promising 
to come often round to the Crescent, and to bring 
Tom with him. 

“Your friend is a sweet and lovely girl,” he 
said to Ursula, when they were walking home. 

“She is all that, and more,” Ursula answered, 
wondering to hear such words from Robert’s lips. 


Anna Trent 


153 


“ The mother is a fool. How old is Miss Trent, 
Ursula?” 

“Nineteen. One month younger than I am,” 
answered Ursula, and the subject dropped. 

But Anna Trent was not dismissed from the 
mind of Robert Vivian. She haunted his dreams, 
disturbed him at business, came even between him 
and his monetary calculations. In fact, Robert 
Vivian was in love. 



CHAPTER XII. 

DR. DUNSCOMBE. 

IS is a letter from Ursula Vivian, John,” • 
said Mary Dunscombe. “ Surely she 
will be coming now.” 

The brother and sister were at breakfast in the 
pleasant dining-room of Beach House. Mary is 
an old friend ; but you will look for a moment at 
Dr. Dunscombe, if you please, for he was no mean 
person in his own estimation. He was not a 
handsome man, but he had a striking face, indi- 
cative of intellect and mental power of no mean 
order ; and he was a thorough gentleman in ap- 
pearance and manner. He was not conceited, 
though the admiration of the women folk in and 
around Sunnybeagh might have made him so ; but 
he was intensely egotistical. Fortune had been 
very kind to him ; he had never been crossed in 
a desire or whim in his life, and all this he was 



154 


Dr. Dunscomhe. 


155 


apt to attribute to his own merits. He was a 
skilful man in his profession, and deservedly 
popular. Although he had not been a year in 
Sunnybeach, his name was known far and wide. 

Such was Dr. Dunscombe. Mary was a sun- 
beam, as of yore; a little more womanly in her 
way, perhaps, but just as winning, just as sweet, just 
as loveable as in the old days at Aldborough. She 
wore a muslin dress, forget-me-nots on a white 
ground, a knot of blue ribbon fastening her bonnie 
brown hair, and a half-blown rosebud at her throat. 

She was a fair picture, and one any man might 
long to see in his home every day. Dr. Dunscombe 
was very fond of and very kind to his pretty 
sister, whom everybody loved. She was just the 
kind of woman he most admired — high-spirited, 
but tractable; void of any strong-minded ideas, 
but full of reverence for masculine intellect, as 
embodied in himself ; a thoroughly good house- 
wife, who allowed nothing to be wasted or thrown 
away ; and a lady besides, v/ho could comport her- 
self well in any society. Mutually satisfied with each 
other, the brother and sister dwelt most amicably 
together, and Beach House was a favourite house 
for visitors in the neighbourhood. 

Dr. Dunscombe merely glanced up from his 


156 


Ursula Vivian, 


newspaper when his sister spoke, and waited to hear 
the contents of the letter. 

“Listen, John,” cried Mary joyfully. “Hear 
what Ursula says. It is just a few lines. 

** ‘ The Grange, Kessington, 14 ^^. 

‘“Dear Mary, — If you will have me, I shall come 
down to Sunnybeach on Friday evening, leaving 
London by the four o’clock train. A line in reply 
will oblige. — Yours, in great haste, Ursula.’” 

Dr. Dunscombe did not look particularly de- 
lighted. 

“ Friday ; this is Tuesday,” he said, drily. “ You 
will need to write at once, Mary.” 

“You are not displeased because Ursula is 
coming, John ?” said Mary, quick to note an inde- 
finable something in his manner. 

“ Displeased ! No, why should I be?” he asked 
indifferently. “ I have no admiration for strong- 
minded or literary women, such as Miss Vivian 
appears to be, but that is no reason why you should 
not have your friend here.” 

To Mary it seemed reason enough, and for a 
moment her sunny face clouded, and she felt vexed 
with her brother. 

“ Ursula is not that; she is a splendid girl, John,” 
she said, a little warmly. 


Dr. Dunscombe. 


157 


Oh, of course, young ladies are always raptur- 
ous over their feminine friends,” he said, in his cool, 
sarcastic way. “ Let her come by all means, but 
don’t let her spoil you, Mary. I can’t have my 
model woman imbued with any absurd and un- 
womanly ideas, remember.” 

Mary smiled a little sly smile. She was a 
woman, and perhaps there crept into her heart a 
notion that her brother might receive at Ursula’s 
hands a punishment he would not relish. 

Dr. Dunscombe did not understand that smile., 
and it annoyed him. But the subject was laid 
aside then, and was mentioned no more till th(^ 
day on which the strong-minded woman was ex* 
pected at Sunnybeach. If Dr. Dunscombe had 
guessed how very little he was in Miss Vivian’s 
thoughts he might have been surprised. She was 
thinking too much of Mary to have any corner 
left for her brother. On Friday Dr. Dunscombe 
had a long round, and, dining at the neigh- 
bouring town, only reached home in time for tea 
at six. 

“ Miss Vivian has arrived, and tea is waiting, sir,” 
the servant said, in answer to his question when he 
entered the house. Dr. Dunscombe did not deem 
it necessary to make any change in his toilet in 


Ursula Vivian, 


158 


honour of his sister’s guest. He simply took off 
his dusty boots, washed his hands, and proceeded 
to the dining-room. He was conscious of a slight 
feeling of curiosity about the young lady, but when 
he entered the room he was surprised. 

“ My brother, Ursula. John, this is Miss Vivian,” 
Mary said; and a figure rose from behind the 
window curtain, and Dr. Dunscombe saw a slight, 
graceful figure clad in deep mourning, relieved 
by linen bands at throat and wrists ; a grave, sad, 
earnest face, lit by the loveliest eyes he had ever 
seen : a perfect lady in appearance and in manner, 
and very different in all ways from the being he 
had pictured during his ride home. She bowed to 
him, just looking him keenly in the face; then she 
offered him her hand. 

" I am very pleased to welcome you to Sunny- 
beach. Miss Vivian,” he said, taking the white 
hand in his ; and she answered simply — and very 
musically he noted — 

" Thank you, Dr. Dunscombe.” 

Then Mary made a movement towards the 
table, and tea began. 

Ursula did not talk much that first evening. 
She was weary, and somehow felt the presence of 
Dr. Dunscombe to be a restraint. She mentally 


Dr. Dunscombe, 


159 


compared the brother and sister, very much to 
Mary’s advantage, and wondered why Mary 
thought him such a piece of perfection. It was 
Ursula’s way to come to quick conclusions — to 
form opinions of persons and things almost instan- 
taneously ; and she did not feel particularly drawn 
to the most popular doctor on the Kentish coast. 
After tea the girls retired upstairs to the drawing- 
room, and, seating themselves in the wide oriel 
window, prepared for a long talk; but for a little 
while Ursula could do nothing but feast her eyes 
upon the blue sea, shimmering in the sunshine, and 
watch the ships floating past like white-winged 
birds. She had all an inlander’s enthusiasm for 
the sea, and Mary enjoyed her enjoyment of it. 
Beach House stood in a delightful garden, sloping 
down to the beach, and had an uninterrupted 
view of the sea from all the front windows. 

“ O Mary, how beautiful ! How glorious it must 
be to live here!” exclaimed Ursula. “I had no 
idea you were so near the sea, nor that Sunnybeach 
v/as such a lovely place.” 

Mary laughed. 

It is famous for its beauty, Ursula. But come, 
sit down, and let us talk. There will be plenty of 
time by-and-by for sight-seeing.” 


Ursula Vivian. 


i6o 


Ursula resumed her seat, and brought her eyes 
back to her friend’s face. 

*‘You are just the Polly of old, only prettier,” 
she said, laying a light, caressing touch on the 
sunny head. “Mary, I have hungered to see you.” 

Mary took the slim fingers in a clasp, which was 
answer enough, and for a little while there was 
nothing said. 

“ I have not recovered yet, Ursula, from the 
surprise the change in you gave me,” Mary said, 
by-and-by. “You have improved so much; you 
look like a princess, or something. Only when I 
look at your mouth, and see the droop of the lips, 
I remember what has done it, and my heart bleeds 
for you.” 

Ursula was silent a little, looking away across 
the shining sea. 

“Mary, I want to thank you now from my 
deepest heart for that letter. It was like a 
message direct from God,” she said, in a low, quiet 
voice. “ I was just beginning to fold my hands 
in useless repining, and asking myself very bitterly 
the wherefore of God’s dealing with me. Your 
letter gave me the key, and with it unutterable 
peace. I have never felt the same since, even 
in my darkest moments, which do come sometimes 


Dr. Dunscombe, 


i6i 


yet. Mary, the thought that God is leading me 
never leaves me, and comforts me inexpressibly.” 

“O Ursula! I am so thankful, dear, that I 
was able to do even that for you,” Mary whispered ; 
but Ursula did not seem to hear. 

“I can look back with some calmness now, 
Mary, to that terrible time, though I shudder still 
at the struggle I had to say, *Not my will, but 
Thine.* That is the hardest lesson human hearts 
have to learn on earth, Mary,” said Ursula, and 
suddenly rising began to pace restlessly up and 
down the room. 

“Mamma was my idol,” she went on. “It was 
in her all my hopes were centred, around her all 
my interests clung ; I was her only daughter, you 
see, and the bond between us was a peculiar one. 
I need not enlarge very much here, but must tell 
you that ours was not a very happy home. My 
father was not quite all that he might have been, 
and on that account mamma’s life was harder than 
it need. I was just beginning, Mary, to be of use 
to her, to spare her fatigue and anxiety, and it was 
an unspeakable joy to me to be able to do even so 
little for her. I was just beginning to repay a 
little of all she had done for me when that terrible 
thing happened, and she was taken away. I pray, 
L 


Ursula Vivian. 


162 


Mary, that you may be spared the agonies I 
endured for days after her death. It was all dark. 
I could see no reason for such sundering of hearts, 
such sudden ending to a life so precious as hers. 
I could find no wherefore for my affliction. I just 
felt like a mariner out in a frightful tempest, 
without rudder or compass. I feared I was lost 
altogether.” 

She paused a moment, and Mary, looking at 
her, dared not speak. Her face was very pale, 
her eyes shining, her breast heaving with intense 
agitation. 

“That evening after she was buried, Mary, I 
stole away to Kessington churchyard in the moon- 
light to her grave. I stayed there, like Jacob of 
old, wrestling for the victory, and got it. A 
glimmering of peace stole into my heart, and I 
could weep, which I had not been able to do for 
days. I could pray too, and God heard and 
answered His poor, weak, suffering child. It is 
through deeps like these, my friend, some must go 
to bring them to submission. How foolish we are 
trying to set up our puny wills against the sweet 
will of God ! and how much easier it is to be in His 
hand, and say, ‘As Thou wilt,’ if we would only 
do it at once and always ; but there is a kind of 


WRESTLING FOR THE VICTORY 





Dr. Diinscomt^e. 


165 


rebellious spirit in our nature which seems to be 
stronger than the submissive element. I think 
God knows it all, Mary, and pities us with an 
infinite compassion.” 

Ursula paused again, and moving over to the 
window stood looking with dreamy, far-away eyes 
upon the sunset gilding sea and sky. There was a 
long silence. 

“ That is all, Mary. I have never told it before, 
and may never tell it again,” said Ursula. “ But 
you are my friend.” 

“ For life, dearest,” Mary answered ; and their 
hcyjds met in seal of the bond. 

“ I am sobered now with a vengeance,” said 
Ursula, by-and-by, with a return of the old girlish 
way. “ I am housekeeper, mother, sister, and 
author — all in one. A family is a great respon- 
sibility, Polly.” 

Mary laughed again. 

** I must come to the Grange and view you in 
your fourfold capacity ; but I know you will do it 
all splendidly, Ursula, you are so clever.” 

“ Nonsense, Polly. I make ridiculous failures ; 
but I thank God I can make a home for my 
brothers, and that there has never been a cloud 
between us. They help me in every possible 


Ursula Vivian, 


i66 


way. You know all there is to know about my 
private occupation, and what success I venture to 
hope for in the literary world ; so now we will talk 
of you.” 

“ Oh, there is nothing about me. I live here in 
peace and quietness with John, and do my best to 
please him. We are very happy, and he is very 
kind to me; that is all. What do you think of him, 
Ursula ?” 

“ It would be unfair to answer yet. When I 
have been a week here, you may ask me again,” 
Ursula answered, with a slight constraint in her 
voice. “ I saw Anna Trent yesterday, Mary.” 

“ Oh, did you ? Isabel was calling here yester- 
day. She said she had not had a letter for a long 
time. We are to go to Hay don Hall to-morrow, 
Ursula ; but what of Anna ?” 

“Anna is a kind of angel, I think, Mary, and 
you will hear of her presently in the world of 
art. She ” 

The opening of the door interrupted Ursula, and 
Dr. Dunscombe entered. 

“May I come in, ladies; or are the confidences 
not all exchanged yet ?” he asked, in that cool way 
of his. 

Mary jumped up at once. 


Z?r. Dunscomhe. 


167 


•*Yes, come in, John ; we can talk another time. 
Have you not to go out to-night ?” 

“ Not to-night. Well, Miss Vivian, what do you 
think of Sunnybeach, now that you have rested a 
little and had a better view of it ?” 

“ It is a beautiful place. Dr. Dunscombe,” 
Ursula answered, but did not offer to prolong the 
conversation. 

Mary wondered much why Ursula should freeze 
up so suddenly whenever John entered the room. 

“ Miss Vivian, do you sing or play ?” he asked, 
glancing at the piano. 

“ A little, a very little, Mary knows,” assented 
Ursula. “ Do you still live at war with the piano, 
Polly? Do you remember practising hours at 
. Aldborough ?” 

“Too well,” laughed Mary. “That is my one 
drawback, I believe, in John’s eyes. He loves music 
and knows nothing about it.” 

“Will you favour us. Miss Vivian?” said Dr. 
Dunscombe. “ I am passionately fond of music, 
and this sister of mine is too lazy to practise, or 
she might do wonders.” 

Ursula rose at once, greatly to the doctor’s 
amazement. 

The majority of the young ladies of his ac- 


i68 


Ursula Vivian. 


quaintance required so much pressing, and had 
so many apologies and excuses before they would 
perform, that this frank readiness was something 
quite refreshing. There was no nonsense about 
Ursula. She knew her musical performances were 
not faultless, but if she could give the slightest 
pleasure she was always willing — a characteristic 
v;hich made her a great favourite at home. 

" I play and sing from memory, and not always 
correctly,” she said, looking up into Dr. Duns- 
combe’s face as he opened the piano for her. “ You 
must not blame me if I disappoint you.” 

She ran her fingers lightly over the keys, and 
in another moment her voice rang through the 
quiet room, sweet and clear as a bell. It was a 
simple song, set to a simple but exquisite melody, 
which was played as if her heart guided her 
fingers. 

Dr. Dunscombe stood leaning a little towards 
her, his face softened almost to tenderness. Music 
was one of the few things which could stir his 
heart. 

When she ceased there was a moment’s intense 
silence. 

“ Something else, please,” Dr. Dunscombe said, 
entreatingly. 


Dr, Dunscomhe, 


169 


But she rose, saying hurriedly : 

"Oh no, not to-night; another timo. I should 
not have sung that ; it always upsets me.” 

And as she glided past him in the shadow, 
Dr. Dunscombe saw that her beautiful eyes were 
brimming with tears. 



CHAPTER Xlir. 

OF THE WORLD. 

E are to dine at Haydon Hall, Ursula,” 
Mary said next morning, when the 
doctor went off upon his rounds, and 
they were all alone. “John will not be home in 
time to walk up with us, but he will join us later. 
He is a great favourite with Mrs. Fortescue, and 
she always excuses him, though he is late.” 

“ I fear dinner at Haydon Hall will be a doubt- 
ful pleasure to me, Mary,” said Ursula. “And my 
gown is hardly fine enough to go among fine 
folks.” 

“ Nor is mine. We will sink into utter insigni- 
ficance before Isabel, whose attire will probably be 
a triumph of Monsieur Worth’s ; but we need not 
mind for that.” 

“What like is Isabel now?” asked Ursula. 

“So lovely I can do nothing but stare at her; 

270 



Of the World. 


171 


but she is very vain and frivolous,” answered Mary. 
“Her talk is very wearisome.” 

“ What like is her brother ? Is he at home ?” 

“ He is very nice, Ursula,” Mary answered, and 
Ursula was quick to note the rising colour on her 
cheek. “ Isabel and he do not get on very well 
together. I think he shocks her aristocratic ideas, 
being a plain, blunt, country squire. You will like 
the old gentleman. Mrs. Fortescue is a lady of 
fashion and a woman of the world. Are you 
satisfied now ?” 

“ Quite ; and now, shall we go out, or have you 
housewifely cares to occupy you for a time ?” 

“Not to-day, when we are dining out,” said 
Mdry, laughing, “ Let us get our hats, Ursula. I 
have a message to the village, and then we can 
stroll along the shore.” 

The morning was one of June’s sunniest mood. 
Sea and sky were cloudlessly blue, and the tiny 
waves lapped the shore with a musical murmur, just 
as if there could be no such thing as a storm in the 
world. Yet it was a wild coast in winter time, and 
the angry seas had been known to roll up to the 
very doors of the cottages which stood nearest the 
beach. The village was very small, — only a few 
straggling cottages, a schoolhouse standing in the 


172 


Ursula Vivian, 


shelter of a stunted chestnut tree, and the church, 
an old-fashioned building, weather-beaten with the 
storms of many winters. Miss Dunscombe’s 
errand was to see an old widow woman who was 
bedridden and entirely dependent upon charity for 
the little which kept her in life. Ursula followed 
her friend into the poor little cottage, watched her 
pull off her gloves, and set to work to light a fire 
and get the invalid some breakfast, chattering to 
her all the while to prevent her words of thanks 
and blessing. When she had made the old woman 
comfortable, and given her a nice cup of tea and a 
morsel of chicken which she had brought in her 
little basket, she- took the worn Bible from the 
mantelshelf and read a Psalm in a low, reverent 
voice. That was how Miss Dunscombe’s mornings 
were spent, ministering to the poor and needy, 
caring for their souls alike. What wonder that 
she was almost worshipped in Sunnybeach ! 

“ How well you do it, Mary,” Ursula said, when 
they were out of doors again. 

“ I like the work. Mamma did a great deal of 
visiting in Drayton before she had so many other 
claims on her time, and I suppose I inherit her 
liking for it,” answered Mary. “ But we have not 
many very poor in Sunnybeach — old Sally and an 


Of the World. 


m 


old man at the other end of the village are really 
the only needful ones. I have a class of poor 
children on Sunday afternoons at home. That is 
interesting work, Ursula.” 

“ I should imagine so. I do nothing of that 
kind, Mary; all my superfluous charities are ab- 
sorbed at home.” 

“ Of course, you can’t do everything. It would 
be to my shame if I did not try to do a little good 
during my abundant leisure.” 

“ Do you remember our talk that last night at 
Aldborough, Polly ?” asked Ursula, with a smile. 

*‘Yes, I have often recalled it. Life has begun 
in sober earnest for some of us already, Ursula.” 

“ Yes, these were happy days at school, Polly,” 
said Ursula, with a sigh. " Void of care, we were 
as light-hearted as the wind. I often wonder, 
can I be the same person I was then — I feel so 
different” 


** The same, the same. 

Yet not the same, 

Ah, never, never more,** 

hummed Mary. “There is not much difference 
in Isabel, except that she is more grown up, you 
know> and has assumed all the airs of a fine lady. 


174 


Ursula Vivian, 


She patronises me extensively, and will try to do 
it to you.” 

“Probably; but I would not change places 
with her, Mary, though she has so many worldly 
gifts.” 

So in pleasant, sisterly talk of persons, places, 
and things, the morning hours were wiled away, 
and they sought their way back to Beach House 
to luncheon. 

At three o’clock they dressed, and set off 
on their three-mile walk to Haydon Hall. It 
was a princely heritage, indeed. Ursula could 
scarcely repress a cry of admiration when a 
sudden curve in the wide avenue of stately chest- 
nut trees brought them face to face with the 
massive pile of building, with its towers and 
turrets, mullioned windows, and wide doorway, 
guarded on either side with huge stone lions, 
carved out of blocks brought from the Squire’s 
quarries in Wales. 

“ I do not wonder Isabel speaks so proudly of 
Haydon Hall, Polly,” said Ursula, as they stood 
a moment on the steps, before seeking admission. 

“ No, it is a lovely place, and it is as magnifi- 
cent without as within,” Mary answered, and 
rang the bell. 



Cn 




I'"*: 


fc:*:.-- 1::;: 










li^.- 

























Of the World, 


177 


A stately individual in purple livery then opened 
the door, and ushered them upstairs at once to the 
drawing-room. 

Mary was right ; almost a limitless wealth and 
refined taste had been at work in the furnishing 
Haydon Hall, and the result was something to be 
remembered. The drawing-room had lately been 
re-furnished, after the new aesthetic designs, and, 
if rather confusing and peculiar to homely eyes, 
there was no doubt about its magnificence. 

The footman announced the ladies, and with- 
drew ; then, from a couch in a shady corner of the 
room, a figure rose, and came forward to greet them. 

It was Isabel, exquisitely dressed, and look- 
ing as lovely as a poet’s dream. 

“ I am glad to see you,” she said, the old 
sweet, haughty tones a little haughtier than of 
yore. Then she kissed them both — a little, cool 
kiss — and looked Ursula all over. 

“You are very much changed, Ursula,” she 
said. “ Will you sit down and chat a little, or I 
think you ought to come up to my dressing- 
room at once, and we can have a cup of tea 
together. Mamma always lies down in the after- 
noon, you know, and papa and Gilbert will 
not be in for hours.” 

M 


178 


Ursula Vivian. 


‘*Yes, we will go upstairs, Isabel,” Mary 
answered promptly. “We are dusty and tired. 
It is a long walk on a June day.” 

“ Did you walk ?” asked Isabel, in languid sur- 
prise. “ I don’t know how you do such things. 
A mile upsets me for days. I hate walking.” 

“All the world cannot go upon wheels,” said 
Ursula, a little drily, for Isabel’s speech partook 
of the spirit of boasting. 

“Now, I know you are Ursula Vivian,” said 
Isabel. “ That is just how you used to speak. 
Well, come away upstairs.” 

She led the way to her dressing-room — a large, 
light room, fitted up with every requisite; nay 
more, every luxury an idle taste could suggest 
and money could buy. Isabel drew the' blinds 
to subdue the sunny light in the room, pulled 
in the lounge from a corner, and ah easy-chair 
from another, bade them be seated, and rang 
the bell. 

“Tea at once, Ellen,” she said to the smart 
housemaid who answered the summons. Then 
she flung herself into an easy-chair, and watched 
her friends removing their dusty boots and wash- 
ing their hands. 

“Of course you are frightfully vexed with me 


Of the World. 


179 


for never writing, Ursula,” she said, “but really 
I have no time. Mary will tell you how much 
I am occupied one way and another. We have 
either visitors or are out somewhere, and you know 
this was my first season in London.” 

“There is no need to apologise, Isabel,” said 
Ursula, pleasantly. “I never expected you to 
write. Ornaments of society are not generally 
voluminous correspondents, you know,” she added, 
ilyly; but the point of the good-humoured sarcasm 
was lost upon Isabel. 

“You do not look quite so old, now that the 
tired look has gone from your face,” she said. 
“ But still you look about thirty-six. You surely 
work very hard, Ursula.” 

“ Perhaps I do, and sorrow ages one, they say,” 
Ursula answered, simply. 

The entrance of the maid with the tea-tray 
spared Isabel the necessity of answering, and she 
skilfully changed the subject. Her frivolous mind 
could suggest nothing fitting to say to anyone in 
sorrow or trouble. “How do you like Sunny- 
beach, Ursula,” she asked. 

“It is very beautiful, and the sea is a great 
revelation to me.” 

Isabel shrugged her shoulders. 


So 


Ursula Vivian, 


“ It is frightfully dull after London. I pleaded 
with mamma to remain the season out, but she 
was inexorable. She did not want me to see too 
much gaiety, nor to be very widely known the first 
season, especially when I am so young, so she 
brought me down here just in the height of all 
the pleasure. Half the entertainments are to 
come yet. We received cards for the Duchess 
of Arlington’s ball on the 23d, and I should have 
seen the Princess there; but mamma declined 
the invitation. All the world wondered at her 
hardihood in refusing the Duchess’s invitation ; but 
mamma is the soul of independence, you know.” 

“Do you like going to dancing-parties every 
night, Isabel ?” asked Mary. “ Is it not weari- 
some?” Isabel smiled, as if in purest amuse- 
ment, and stirred her tea meditatively. 

“You dear little goose, it is a charming life. 
One never has time to think such stupid thoughts. 
I enjoyed it very much ; it is such fun snubbing 
the ineligibles. Mamma says my manner is quite 
perfect.” 

Ursula laughed outright behind her tea-cup, and 
at that moment Mrs. Fortescue entered the room, 
and greeted the giiis with somewhat condescend- 
ing cordiality. 


Of the World. 


i8i 


She was a handsome woman, of haughty and 
proud demeanour, not a loveable person by any 
means ; yet a certain graciousness of manner she 
could assume, when necessary or advisable, made her 
very popular in society. She was just the woman 
to train a foolish, frivolous-minded girl like Isabel 
into all the miserable ways of fashionable life. 
She stayed a few minutes talking with them, and 
then went to dress. 

“Your brother will dine with us, of course, 
Mary,” said Isabel, and there was an indefinable 
something in her voice or manner which caused 
Ursula to wonder — she could not tell why. 

“Yes, John will be in time, if possible ; if not, he 
will need to be excused, as usual,” laughed Mary. 
“ A doctor cannot always observe the amenities of 
social life.” 

“ I suppose not Well, shall we go to the draw- 
ing-room now ? Perhaps Gilbert or papa may be 
there. It is past six now.” 

In the drawing-room they found Gilbert For- 
tescue standing in the window humming a scrap 
of song. He wheeled round when the ladies en- 
tered, and gave them a hearty greeting. Ursula 
thought he held Mary’s hand in his longer than he 
need have done. He was a fine, manly fellow, like 


i 82 


Ursula Vivian, 


his sister in appearance, but in nothing else. He 
had a hearty contempt for all the frivolity of 
fashionable life, preferring Haydon Hall at any 
season of the year to the town house in Portland 
Place. He was the very beau-ideal of a country 
squire — free-handed, generous, warm-hearted, and 
fearlessly honest. Everybody loved the young 
squire, and said that he was a true chip of the old 
block. 

Ursula liked him, and because she did, spoke to 
him frankly at once. That was her way. Dr. 
Dunscombe did not appear in time for dinner, and 
the company had been in the drawing-room nearly 
half-an-hour afterwards when he was announced. 
He was warmly welcomed, but scolded by Mrs. 
Fortescue. The Squire gave him a hearty grip, 
and Isabel gave him the tips of her dainty fingers. 
Ursula felt impelled to look at her at the moment, 
and there was something in the lovely violet eyes 
which could have but one meaning. Could it be 
that all Isabel’s ambition would end in becoming 
the wife of an obscure country practitioner? If 
she remained true to her mother’s teaching, surely 
not. 

Some time was spent in general conversation, 
then Dr. Dunscombe asked for some music. 



ISABEL WENT TO THE PIANO 


(P. 1S3.) 









Of the World, 


185 


Isabel, not hard to persuade, went to the piano 
at once at his request, and played skilfully enough 
a brilliant piece, which showed her white fingers 
and the gleaming of her rings to perfection. Dr. 
Dunscombe stood beside her, turning over her 
music, but did not look entranced. When it was 
done, he thanked her, and looked appealingly at 
Ursula. 

"Do you sing or play, Miss Vivian?” asked 
Mrs. Fortescue. 

"Ursula’s talents do not lie in that direction, 
mamma,” said Isabel, sweetly. "She is literary, 
you know.” 

"She is musical also, as I have proved,” said 
Dr. Dunscombe. "Miss Vivian, may I beg you 
to give our friends the pleasure you gave to me 
last night ?” 

"You are pleased to flatter me, I fear,” said 
Ursula, but went to the piano at once. 

There was perfect silence all through her ex- 
quisite singing. Perfect silence, too, when she 
had finished, till the Squire spoke. 

"By Jove, now that’s what I call singing! that 
music — eh, Dunscombe. My dear, will you oblige 
an old man by giving us another ?” 

Ursula was quite willing, glad indeed that she 


Vrs^da Vivian, 


1 86 


was giving pleasure, quite unconscious that in 
Isabel’s heart there was rising something very 
akin to hatred against her. 

Yes, Isabel had given her heart unasked to Dr. 
Dunscombe, therefore it was not sweet to her to 
see him hanging upon every note of Ursula’s sing- 
ing; nor to see how often his eyes rested upon 
her face when she returned to her seat and began 
to talk to Gilbert. 

When they left an hour later, Isabel did not ask 
them to come again. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

CONQUERED. 

SHALL go in, Dr. Dunscombe,” said 
Ursula, her voice sounding clear and 
sharp in the still air, as if she was 
sorely displeased. 

They were walking along the shore, by the edge 
of the receding tide. It was Sunday ^afternoon. 
Mary was busy with her class indoors, and the 
doctor had persuaded his sister’s friend to take a 
stroll with him, but evidently they had fallen out 
very speedily. 

He looked at her curiously for a moment, then 
turned his head away, and there was an awkward 
silence. 

“ Have I offended beyond all forgiveness. Miss 
Ursula,” he asked, by-and-by, with a half smile 
upon his lips, “because I ventured to express a 
candid opinion regarding strong-minded women ?” 

“ Of whom I am an objectionable type. Go on, 

187 



i88 


Ursula Vivian, 


Dr. Dunscombe,” said Ursula, with curling lips. 
She was very angry, and she could not hide it. 

“Pardon, I did not say so,” corrected Dr. 
Dunscombe, in his coolest way. “I only gave it 
as my humble conviction that home is the woman’s 
kingdom, and that when her chief interests centre 
there, her best energies employed to make it happy, 
it is better for her and for all connected with it.” 

“And what of those who have no homes in 
which to centre their interests, in which to employ 
their best energies .?” inquired Ursula. 

“ I speak of the rule, not of the exception. Miss 
Vivian.” 

Then there was another brief silence, during 
which Ursula recovered her equanimity. 

“Let us discuss this subject a little. Dr. Duns- 
combe,” she said at length. “Would you give 
a woman no place beyond the four walls of her 
own home, simply because she is a woman ?” 

“ Women were not intended to fight life’s battles 
on equal ground with the sterner sex, Miss Vivian.” 

“They do not seek it as a rule. But what of 
that noble band of women-workers whom neces- 
sity compels to earn their bread by daily toil, 
physical or mental, outside their homes? Are 
they to be called unwomanly for so doing ?** , 


Conquered, 


189 


“ Not when necessity compels them. They are 
worthy of all respect. But I have no respect for 
certain young ladies I have known in my time, 
who considered themselves specially called to 
redress the fancied wrongs of their sex. These 
ladies who go about clamouring on public plat- 
forms for women’s suffrage, and other equally 
absurd things, have laid aside that womanly 
sweetness, which, like the aroma of the violet, is 
their chiefest ornament.” 

“ You wax very eloquent, Dr. Dunscombe,” said 
Ursula, smiling a little. “ I have not studied the 
subject very deeply, but I see no reason why 
women householders should not have the franchise, 
if they desire it. So far as I have been able to 
judge, women are as capable of voting as fairly and 

impartially as their ” 

“ We will not go into this part of the question. 
Miss Vivian, because I feel very strongly about it, 
and I might offend you still further.” 

“Not at all. It might ruffle me on the surface, 
as that breeze is ruffling the sea yonder. Yet why 
should you fear to offend? Is it because I am a 
woman. Dr. Dunscombe ?” 

“ Courtesy is due to a lady,” returned the doctor, 
curtly, “and if the battle were to be fought on 


190 


Ursula Vivian, 


equal ground, courtesy would need to be dispensed 
with, not only in the matter of discussion, but in 
everything else.” 

“Will you tell me what your model woman is 
like. Dr. Dunscombe?” asked Ursula; “I am curious 
to meet her.” 

She spoke quite soberly, but beneath the 
broad-brimmed hat her eyes were dancing. Her 
momentary annoyance past, she was enjoying 
the talk very much. 

“ Willingly ; but in all probability she will only 
meet with your contempt,” returned Dr. Duns- 
combe. “Well, she must be gentle, cheerful, 
willing to oblige, acquainted with all house-wifely 
accomplishments, but able at all times to comport 
herself like a lady. She must find her first and 
best interest at home, find her chief happiness in 
making it a dear and pleasant place for its inmates. 
There are two verses of Lowell’s which contain the 
sum of the whole matter. May I repeat them ?” 

“Surely,” said Ursula. 


** Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 

Although no home were half so fair ; 
No simplest duty is forgot, 

Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine shares 


Conquered, 


191 


** She doeth little kindnesses 

Which most leave undone or despise. 

For nought that sets one heart at ease. 

And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes.” 

“ I have not heard them before ; they are very 
beautiful,” said Ursula, when he had finished. 
“They are an exact description of your sister 
Mary. You are fortunate in having your ideal 
with you in your house, and perhaps that makes 
you a little hard upon others less blessed than 
she. But I would remind you. Dr. Dunscombe, 
that all human lives are not cast in such sweet 
and pleasant grooves.” 

Her face was very grave, and her eyes were 
looking away across the shining sea with a strange 
shadow in their depths. . 

At that moment she seemed to have forgotten 
the presence of her companion, and they stood for 
a space at the garden gate in silence. She was 
not a beautiful woman, nor a charming one in any 
way, — still less was she anything at all approach- 
ing to Dr. Dunscombe’s idea of womanly excellence, 
yet — as he looked he felt his heart go out to her 
as it had never gone out to living woman before. 
He w as not in love }’et, but he was interested — 


192 


Ursula Vivian. 


strangely, deeply interested in Ursula Vivian. 
She was at once a revelation and a study to him. 

“Miss Ursula, I have been talking at random 
this afternoon,” he said, leaning a little towards 
her. “ You will bear me no ghidge for it, I hope.” 
Slowly Ursula turned her head and looked at 
him through eyes that had tears in their deepest 
depths. 

“Oh no; I was not thinking of anything you 
said,” she answered, gravely and simply. “ Look- 
ing upon the sea, my thoughts flew to that other 
sea which men call Death, and on which so many 
embark every day of every year — embark every 
moment of every day. It is a great and grand 
mystery, Dr. Dunscombe, which we are content to 
leave unravelled, because it is of God.” 

So saying, Ursula went very slowly through the 
gate, and up the wide path to the house, leaving 
her companion to his own thoughts. They were 
all of her, and though he did his utmost to banish 
her from his mind, he failed utterly and entirely. 

Ursula did not care for her friend’s brother. 
She liked him for his kindness to Mary, and tried 
to believe all the praise the fond sister bestowed 
upon him ; but as the days went by she did not 
feel herself drawn to him any more than she had 


Conquered. 


193 


been the first night she came to Sunnybeach. 
On that account Dr. Dunscombe never saw the 
sweetest, sunniest side of Ursula’s character. She 
was generally curt of speech, blunt of manner, and 
rather grim of face in his presence, and yet he was 
interested in her in spite of himself ; possibly he 
enjoyed the novelty of being contradicted without 
hesitation, and snubbed also, when Ursula thought 
fit ; in fact, Mary was at times rather piqued at 
Ursula’s treatment of her brother. The days 
slipped away pleasantly enough, and the fortnight 
came to an end. 

Ursula looked better and stronger than she had 
done when she came. She had enjoyed her visit 
exceedingly, yet she was unspeakably glad at the 
thought of going home. 

She left Sunnybeach early one morning, taking 
with her Mary’s promise to spend Christmas at the 
Grange. They parted as sisters part, with true 
regret on either side. Each had done the other 
good, and the bonds of the old friendship had 
received a new and stronger seal. They would 
indeed be friends for life. 

Dr. Dunscombe drove Miss Vivian to the 
station himself. He was very quiet all the way, 
and Ursula felt no inclination to speak; her 
N 


194 


Ursula Vivian, 


thoughts were all of home now. He took her 
ticket for her, looked after her luggage, and 
then came back to the door of the carriage in 
which she had taken her seat. 

“I have the memory of a truly pleasant visit 
to take away with me, Dr. Dunscombe,” she said, 
with more gracious cordiality than she had shown 
to him any time during the past fortnight. “Many 
thanks to Mary and to you.” 

He answered nothing, but stood there looking 
her full in the face. Strange that no suspicion of 
the truth came home to Ursula then. 

“You are so overjoyed to get rid of me that you 
have got no words to say,” she said tauntingly. 
“We are moving; good-bye.” 

Then he took her hand in a grip of iron. 

“Good-bye, Ursula,” he said; but at the moment 
she did not observe that he used her first name. 
“When Mary visits you I shall come and bring 
her home.” 

“ Do ; we shall be pleased to see you,” said 
Ursula courteously. “Good-bye.” 

Then the train steamed out of the station, and 
Dr. Dunscombe retired out to his gig. Beach 
House seemed strangely dull that night to the 
Diinscombes. 


Conquered, 


195 


“ How I miss Ursula,” said Mary, with a great 
sigh, as they sat at their late tea-table in the 
gathering shadows of the summer twilight. “Now, 
John, do you like her better than you antici- 
pated ?” 

“I am not sure of that,” returned Dr. Duns- 
combe, with the contrariness of his sex. “ She is 
certainly a superior girl, and commands respect; 
but I am very doubtful about the home where 
she presides.” 

Yet Dr. Dunscombe would have given a world 
to see Ursula in his home every day ; it was the 
desire of his heart to make her its mistress, for he 
loved her — as a man loves but once in life. His 
mode of speech was characteristic of the man. 

“I have no doubt about it whatever, John,” 
Mary said, “ but we will see for ourselves when we 
go to Kessington. If you knew all that I know 
about Ursula Vivian you would talk differently.” 

Dr. Dunscombe held his peace. 

“I am very vexed with Isabel, John, for her 
treatment of Ursula,” said Mary, after a little 
pause. 

“Yes, Miss Fortcscue can annihilate when she 
chooses,” he answered drily. 

A silvery laugh fell from Mary’s lips. 


ig6 


Ursula Vivian, 


“ Annihilate ! Do you imagine she did that to 
Ursula Vivian ? It would take a very skilful 
person to annihilate Ursula. She pities Isabel, 
John, with a vaster pity than Isabel bestows upon 
her, and she would not change places with her for 
triple the glory of Haydon Hall.” 

“I do not wonder at it,” said the doctor with 
emphasis. “ Miss Fortescue is not a woman to be 
envied.” 

A silence fell again, and to both the lack of 
Ursula’s presence was very sad. It was at this 
hour she had always sung and played for them, 
filling the quiet room with echoes of sweetest 
melody, and that was stilled now. 

“You will miss the music, John,” said Mary, 
rising with a sigh. 

“ It would be. well for me, Mary, if I missed 
nothing but her music,” he answered brusquely, 
and quitted the room, leaving his sister sitting 
like one in a dream. 

So Ursula had conquered after all, not by her 
intellect, nor her music, nor her beauty, but by her 
chielest charm — that exquisite womanliness which 
had been born of a great sorrow, and which sat 
so beautifully upon her. 

How would it end ? 



CHAPTER XV. 


THANKSGIVING. 


RSULA received a royal welcome home. 
The boys hung about her, not saying 
very much, but their look and touch told 
the sister who loved them, and whom they loved, 
how she had been missed. It was very sweet to 
her. Who among us do not prize such evidences 
of love from those dear to us ? 

She was rested and refreshed by her visit to 
Sunnybeach, ready for the campaign once more, 
eager to fling open the doors of the garret and 
again work to win. 

Not many days after her arrival home she 
received a communication from Mr. Parrel con- 
cerning her story. I need not transcribe it here. 
Sufiflee to say that it was entirely satisfactory, 
and Ursula foresaw a speedier severing of that 
hateful bond of debtor and creditor between her 


197 


198 


Ursula Vivian, 


brother and herself than she had dared to hope 
for. Her contract with the publisher was sealed, 
the story went to press, and Ursula wrote on. 

Slowly the days went by, and the anniversary 
of their sorrow came again. Its approach cast 
a gloom upon the Grange, and strive as she 
might Ursula could not always appear bright 
and cheerful to her brothers. Her heart grew 
so rebelliously sore at times that she had to 
creep away to her garret and utter that passion- 
ate prayer which seemed to live in her heart, 
“Lord help me to say. Not my will, but Thine T 
Sometimes the longing to see her mother’s face^ 
to touch her hand, to hear her speak only one 
word, grew uncontrollable; sometimes she felt 
so awfully alone, so desolate, in the orphaned 
household, that even God seemed afar off. We who 
have suffered the like know how it was with her. 

Geoffrey continued his studies under the organist 
of St. Michael’s, and it soon became public talk 
that when Mr. Franz left in the autumn his pupil 
would succeed him. Every one was pleased, and 
not a little proud also, for the boy-organist would 
make St. Michael’s famous in the country. Ursula 
heard the rumours, but hardly dared believe them ; 
they seemed too good to be true. 


Thanksgiving, 


199 


On the anniversary of her mother’s death and 
her father’s funeral Ursula rose feeling nervous 
and depressed. She would fain have stolen 
away up the Scaur out of sight of all which 
brought up so many painful memories. But 
there were others to be thought of ; so she de- 
scended to the dining-room at the usual time, 
and was in her place at the table when the boys 
came down. It was a sad and silent meal. 

“ I can’t eat any more, Ursula,” said Charlie 
at last, and ran out of the room with a great 
burst. In a moment Fred followed him, and 
only Ursula and Geoffrey were left. 

“O Ursula, if mamma were only here!” he 
said, in a choked voice. “It is like a century 
since she left us.” 

“ Have I filled her place so poorly, Geoffrey ?” 
Ursula asked, with quivering lips. 

“O Ursula, surely you dofi’t think I meant 
that?” said Geoffrey, in distress. “You know 
all you have been to us, and how we love you 
for it.” 

“ Yes, I know. Forgive me, Geoffrey ; I spoke 
without thinking,” she said, smiling a little. “ I 
feel so sad to-day, I hardly know what I am 
saying.” 


200 


Ursula Vivian* 


Ursula, I am to be appointed organist of St. 
Michael’s next week,” said Geoffrey, by-and-by. 

“Next week! Organist of St. Michael’s! Why 
did not you tell me last night 

“ I don’t know ! I feel funny about these things, 
Ursula; and, besides, I wanted to tell you this 
morning.” 

Ursula understood him, guessing that he had 
thought the announcement would be a comfort 
to her to-day, and so it was. 

“Mr. St. John told me last night, Ursula; and 
I am to have a salary of £\o\ and, with the 
private teaching there is in Kessington, I shall 
be able to keep myself and help you,” said 
Geoffrey. 

Ursula could not speak. Even at the moment 
when she was questioning God’s dealing with her 
and hers, He had assured Geoffrey’s future. One 
anxious care He had lifted entirely from her heart, 
and she had indeed received a garment of praise 
for the spirit of heaviness. 

“God is very good to us, Geoffrey,” she said, 
with fast-filling eyes ; “ even when we have least 
faith in Him.” 

“He has been very good to me, Ursula, I shall 
never iorget it,” said Geoffrey, lorgetting his shy* 


Thanksgiving. 


201 


ness, and speaking all his thoughts. “ When papa 
and mamma died, I knew Robert thought of me as 
a useless piece of lumber, who couldn’t make a 
living for himself. He always despised my music. 
I wonder if he will despise it now, when it is to 
give me bread enough and to spare ?” 

“ I think not,” answered Ursula, with a little 
smile. “ Yes, Geoffrey, it is a great joy to me that 
your gift is to be as useful to you as mine is to me. 
When I rose this morning I thought the world was 
very dark, and yet it is all blessing — all blessing, if 
we could but see it;” and under her breath she 
added the prayer, Lord, forgive my little faith.” 

After tea that evening Ursula went to Kes- 
sington on some errands, intending to call at Mr. 
Aarons’ for Geoffrey at seven o’clock, but insen- 
sibly her feet turned towards the churchyard — to 
that sacred grave which it was her joy and 
privilege to keep lovely with the blossoms of the 
year. It was a beautiful spot, that quiet God’s 
acre on the sunny hillside, removed a little way 
from the stir of the busy town, upon which it 
looked down as if to keep the inhabitants in 
memory of its many silent lessons. It wa§ just 
the sunset when Ursula opened the gate, and 
walked slowly with bent head to the enclosure 


202 


Ursula Vivian, 


where slept those she had loved so well. There 
was no headstone upon the grave. In days to 
come Ursula hoped to place upon it a tribute to 
the beloved memory, but not yet. She stooped 
down at the green mound, touching with tender 
fingers the sweet blossoms which her hand had 
planted in the spring. Her tears fell fast all the 
while, but they were the tears which our Father 
treasures up — tears in which no bitterness mingles, 
only that natural and human regret which we are 
permitted to express, because Jesus wept. Truly 
I think that to mourners these two words must 
be at times the very sweetest in God’s blessed 
book ! Ursula stayed a little while, enjoying the 
golden light of the sunset, and feeling an unutter- 
able sense of rest and peace stealing over her 
heart. She was so unmistakably being led, being 
cared for at all times, — so many things were daily, 
made plain to her, that she could but say over 
and over : 

“Lord, lead me always. I would seek to lie 
in Thy hand, knowing Thou doest all things well.” 

The fading light warned her at length that ^she 
niust go, so she gathered a single blossom from the 
grave, fastened it at her throat, and went her way, 
rested and refreshed. 


T hanksgiving. 


203 


Outside the churchyard gate, to her amaze- 
ment, she saw Laurence Abbot slowly pacing up 
and down, and evidently waiting for her. She 
knew he had been daily expected home ; he must 
have arrived since she saw Agnes the day before. 
She went to meet him, perhaps with a little 
added colour in her face, for Laurence Abbot 
was oftener in Ursula’s mind than she cared to 
admit to herself. He turned to her, raised his 
hat, and took her offered hand — his pleasant, manly 
eyes looking down upon her with an unmistakable 
meaning in their depths. But Ursula did not look 
into them just at first. 

“ Miss Ursula, will you forgive me ? I saw you 
in Kessington, and, guessing where you had gone, 
followed you here. May I walk home with you, or 
do I intrude ?” 

Then Ursula looked at him, and that look was 
answer sufficient. So Laurence Abbot took her 
hand upon his arm, as if he had a perfect right to 
do so, and Ursula did not demur. 

“ Is Agnes quite well, and when did you come ?” 
she asked by-and-by. 

“They are all well, thanks, and I came late 
last night,” he answered. “ If this had been any 
other day save your sad anniversary, I should 


204 


Ursula Vivian, 


have come to the Grange in the afternoon, 
Ursula.” 

Ursula said nothing. There came upon her at 
that moment that strange sense of security and 
strength — aye, and happiness — which she had 
experienced before in the presence of Laurence 
Abbot. 

“ Your sorrow is not hopeless, Ursula,” he said, 
gently, thinking her heart had grown sore again 
over the unforgotten past and the lonely present. 

“Oh no. I can say now, Mr. Abbot, that I 
would not have them back,” she answered, half 
dreamily. “ Only sometimes I feel so helpless, so 
unable to fill, even in a small degree, the place my 
mother has left. I had so little preparation, you 
know,” she added, half pitifully. . 

“ I dare not express a tithe of what I feel and 
think of the way in which you guide your mother- 
less household, Ursula,” said Laurence Abbot, his 
manly voice very earnest. “ You are a living lesson 
to the womanhood of Kessington.” 

“Oh, hush!” said Ursula, in genuine distress. 
“If you say such things to me you will take away 
all the pleasure of my walk home.” 

“ Is there pleasure in it with me, Ursula?” asked 
Laurence, bending a little towards her. 


Thanksgiving. 


205 


“ Now, you talk nonsense,” said Ursula, turning 
away her face, but not till he had seen its exquisite 
blush. “ Let us talk to some purpose, Mr. Abbot. 
Are your college days over now ?” 

“Yes, and I begin the real work of life in 
October.” 

“Where and how, may I ask, without seeming 
curious ?” 

“Assuredly you may. I have been honoured 
with the post of first classical master at Rugby, 
Miss Ursula.” 

“I congratulate you with all my heart,” said 
Ursula, warmly. 

“ Is that all ?” he asked, his winning eyes 
dancing a little. 

“ How much more would you like V asked 
Ursula, saucily. “I am a woman of few words 
Mr. Laurence, but they mean a good deal.” 

“A woman!” quoth Laurence Abbot, looking 
down from his tall height upon the slender, girlish 
figure by his side. “How long have you called 
yourself by that name, Ursula?” 

Ursula laughed. 

“ I was a child till I left school, and then I was 
a woman ; I have had no girlhood,” she answered, 
half in jest, half in earnest. “ Well, here we arc ; 


206 


Ursula Vivian, 


you must not come any further than the gate 
to-night, but will you bring Agnes to tea to- 
morrow ?’* 

“And go away without mine? No, thanks,” 
said Laurence. 

“You are very absurd; you must assume a 
dignity more befitting your position, else you will 
not inspire awe and reverence in the minds of the 
Rugby boys. Good-night.” 

“ How abrupt you are ; I want to stand here and 
talk a great while with you, Ursula,” said Laurence. 
And again Ursula found it advisable to avoid those 
piercing eyes. 

“But I don’t want to stand a great while 
talking with you,” she said demurely; “therefore, 
good-night.” 

“ Good-night, Ursula, since you send me off ; but 
there is a time coming when I shall speak and you 
will listen too ; and that’s not very far away,” said 
Laurence daringly; and with a grip which made 
Ursula’s fingers tingle he lifted his hat, smiled his 
pleasant good-night, and strode off. 

Ursula’s heart was full of sweetness. Clear and 
shining as the evening star above her rose up the 
truth that Laurence Abbot loved her. True, 
manly, brave and strong ; full of reverence for all 


Thanksgiving. 


207 


things good, and hating all things evil, he was her 
ideal of young manhood — and he loved her ! 

Within the ivied porch, in the sweet summer 
dusk, she paused a little while to quiet her throbbing 
heart. The crown of her womanhood was coming 
very near to her, and with it her many cares would 
have an end ; for they would be laid upon the? 
broad shoulders of one who would bear them 
gladly for love of her, whose tenderness would be 
to her such a shelter, such a sweet abiding-place, 
such a joy, that she scarcely dared dwell upon it 
yet. 

“ For this also I thank thee, O my Father T she 
whispered, very low, and stole into the house 



CHAPTER XVL 

AT ALI.ANTON ROAD. 

E letters which came from Tom during 
the autumn months were not satisfactory 
to Ursula. She could not tell whether 
it was drooping health or drooping spirits which 
took all the liveliness out of them, but there was 
evidently something wrong. There was no word 
of a holiday for him ; and Ursula was just planning 
a surprise visit to London, with one of the younger 
boys, when one October morning a letter came 
from Robert, which ran as follows : — 

“Allanton Road, London, 

Of/. 13//4. 

"Dear Ursula, — ^You had better come up to 
London at once. Tom has not been well of late, 
and has been laid up in bed these two days. The 
doctor is afraid for some kind of fever, but don’t 
alarm yourself. Telegraph your train, and I shall 
meet you. — Your aftectionate brother, 

" R. Vivian.” 



80 S 


At Allanton Road, 


209 


Needless to say, Ursula was off by the noon 
train. She forgot all about the telegraphing, and 
when she arrived at Mrs. Hill’s abode, found 
Robert at business. She could hardly wait to hear 
Mrs. Hill’s garrulous account of Tom’s state of 
health, but, cutting her short, ran upstairs at once 
to the dingy bedchamber where Tom had lain 
these two days, sick of body and sick of heart, 
longing for home. 

She stepped lightly into the room and went 
over to the bed. He was asleep, and dreaming 
evidently, for he kept muttering incessantly. Once 
or twice Ursula caught her own name. 

She bent low over him, laid her cool hand on 
his flushed forehead, and was afraid to feel what a 
fever burned there. The touch, light though it 
was, awakened him, and he looked at her with 
recognition in his eyes. 

“ Ursula, old girl, that’s right. I thought I was 
in London yet. I’m glad I’m home,” he said, and 
rambled on again of his work, calling his fellows 
by their names, Ursula listening almost in terror. 
She had never seen anything like this in her life. 

Leaving the room, she stole down to Mrs. Hill 
to ask when the doctor had been, and what he had 
said. 


O 


210 


Ursula Vivian, 


“He didn’t say anything, mum, when he was 
here this morning,” said Mrs. Hill ; “but it’s fever, 
or I’m much mistaken. He asked if you were 
coming, and said he’d call in the evening.” 

Even as she spoke there was a ring at the bell, 
and Mrs. Hill, hurrying to the door, admitted the 
doctor. Ursula waited for him in the sitting- 
room. He was a comparatively young man, but 
Ursula liked and trusted him whenever she saw 
him. 

“ Miss Vivian, I presume ?” he said, inquiringly. 

“Yes, and you are Dr. ?” 

“ Raymond, at your service. Miss Vivian,” said 
the doctor. “I am grieved you have had such a 
.sudden summons to London. Have you seen 
y^our brother ?” 

“Yes, and he appears to me to be very ill,” said 
Ursula. “You are afraid of fever, I fancy?” 

“Sure of it. Will you come upstairs with me 
now ?” 

Ursula bowed, and the two proceeded to the 
sick-room. The doctor drew up the blind, glanced 
somewhat discontentedly round the narrow, dingy 
room, and then approached the bed. 

Tom looked up at him, and addressed him by 
the name of one of his fellows in the warehouse. 


At A /Ian ton Road» 


2II 


Dr. Raymond looked at him a minute or two in 
silence, touched his forehead, felt his pulse, and 
turned to Ursula. 

“Typhoid fever, Miss Ursula,” he said, in his 
curt, professional way, “Are you equal to a 
month’s nursing ?” 

“ I am equal to anything. Dr. Raymond, so long 
as there is hope.” 

The doctor smiled reassuringly. 

“ Oh, there is no fear of him. It will be a mild 
case, but the fever is always a tedious one. It has 
to run its course, whether it be mild or violent. I 
wish we could have had our patient in a roomier 
apartment.” 

“I wish I had him at home. Dr. Raymond. 
It will be impossible to move him, I suppose, for 
weeks ?” 

“Six weeks at the earliest, then you can take 
him down to Kessington — I think your brother 
said that was the name of the place — and make 
him strong and well again. In the meantime, we 
must just watch and wait.” 

“You can do nothing, then?” said Ursula, in- 
quiringly. • 

“ Comparatively speaking, nothing. The disease 
must have its own course.” 


212 


Ursula Vivian, 


“ Is it contagious ?” 

“ Strictly speaking no, but I should advise the 
good lady downstairs to send her children out of 
the house. There is no use running needless risks. 
You are not afraid, Miss Vivian ?” 

Ursula almost smiled. 

“Oh no. It was of Mrs. Hill and her family 
I thought when I spoke,” she said quietly. “ We 
will expect to see you every day, Dr. Raymond.” 

“Certainly; and let me advise you, Miss Vivian, 
to get your brother to share the night watching 
with you. You must be careful of yourself for 
}'our patient’s sake.” 

“Yes, I shall. I cannot afford to be ill for many 
reasons,” answered Ursula. Then the doctor bade 
her good-bye and went his way. 

In spite of Dr. Raymond’s reassuring words, 
Ursula went about with a continual load on her 
mind. To her unaccustomed eyes the illness 
seemed a terrible one, though in reality it was a 
mild case. In her brother Robert she found a 
sympathising friend indeed. There seemed to be 
a great and indefinable change in Robert Vivian, 
whatever its cause. Ursula was amazed at his 
gentleness, his consideration towards her, at his 
anxious solicitude concerning Tom ; and she found 


At Allanton Road, 


213 


his presence a help and stimulus, without which, I 
fear, she would have succumbed during these 
weary weeks of anxiety and care. 

Little did Ursula dream whose sweet influence 
had wrought the change, whose example was do- 
ing for Robert what nothing else could have done, 
whose gentle hands were breaking down all the 
barriers of worldliness and selfishness which had 
hidden all the real good which lay in Robert’s 
heart 

In three weeks’ time the fever spent itself, and 
one morning, to Ursula’s intense thankfulness, 
Tom looked up at her with eyes which had the 
clear light of recognition in their depths. 

Ursula, where am I V* he asked, in a voice so 
weak she had to bend down to catch the words. 
** Have I been ill ?” 

“Very ill, dear, but you will be better soon now, 
please God,” she whispered, tenderly. 

“ I feel as weak as a baby. I don’t seem to 
know anything either. But since you are here I 
think I shall sleep a bit,” said Tom, contentedly; 
and accordingly he shut his eyes, and fell into a 
deep and health-giving slumber. 

Ursula knelt down by the bed to return thanks 
to God for His great merCy. Until now she never 


214 


Ursula Vivian, 


knew how great had been her fear of a different 
issue. But it was all right now, and there was 
only the getting well to be accomplished ; and 
though her nursing was in reality only about to be 
begun she felt so blithe of heart she could have 
sung for joy. 

She stole away down to the sitting-room, by- 
and-by, to write a letter home containing the good 
news, but presently she was interrupted by the 
doctor, who only stayed a few minutes, and 
expressed himself highly satisfied with his patient’s 
condition. 

After he was gone, Ursula went back to her 
letter again, but was interrupted a second time 
by the announcement of a visitor. To her great 
astonishment she looked up to see Anna Trent 

“ Anna, are you not afraid ?” she gasped. 

“Not at all,” smiled Anna. “I did not know 
anything about Tom’s illness or you being here 
till last night, or I would have come long ago. I 
met your brother last night, and I came at once.” 

“ I am delighted to see you, Anna,” said Ursula, 
warmly ; “ especially to-day, for I can talk to you 
with a light heart Dr. Raymond has just pro- 
nounced Tom out of danger.” 

“I’m glad of it. What an anxious time you 


At Allanton Road. 


215 


musl have had! You don’t look so worn as I 
expected.” 

“ Oh no ; I’m made of tough stuff, Anna,” said 
Ursula. ‘'Well, I’m not going to let you stay 
any time, for fear, you know. Just tell me how 
you have been ; and what about the picture?” 

“A gentleman, a friend of papa’s, offered me a 
hundred pounds for it, but papa would not let it 
go, and it is to be hung in the Academy in the 
spring. Then the triumphal procession will need 
to come and view it,” returned Anna, smiling at 
the recollection of that memorable talk at Aid- 
borough. 

“I congratulate you, Anna,” said Ursula, sin- 
cerely. “ Well, the Bosphorus was safe after all.” 

Oh yes. Papa and the boys arrived two days 
after your visit. Papa liked the picture, Ursula. 
It was worth all my work to see his face.” 

“ I don’t wonder at it, Anna. It is an exquisite 
picture. I have been at Sunnybeach since I saw 
you last.” 

“Yes; Mary told me in a letter. Did you 
enjoy your visit?” 

“ Exceedingly. Mary is just the Mary of old. 
Isabel has developed into a woman of the world, 
Anna.” 


2I6 


Ursula Vivian, 


“Yes. I wonder is she happy ?” 

“ I do not think so. Wealth and fashion can- 
not buy happiness. Well, Anna, you must go.” 

“Very well. If I must I must, I suppose. You 
will be round soon. Mamma will be pleased to 
see you. Perhaps you may see papa and the 
boys too. The Bosphorus is expected in port in 
about a fortnight.” 

“Ah, I should like to see them. My brother 
Fred wants to be a sailor, Anna, and I should 
like a talk with Captain Trent about him.” 

“ Papa will be glad to tell you anything, and 
help you in any way,” returned Anna. “ O 
Ursula, how I love papa! I sometimes fear I 
love him too well.” 

“ I don’t know, Anna. God first, dear ones 
after; then no matter how well we love them,” 
returned Ursula. “ Well, good-bye, dearest Anna, 
you always do me good.” 

“You do love me a little, Ursula,” said Anna, 
wistfully. 

“ Love you I Who could help it ? You are our 
Saint Anna, you know. You have taught me 
many lessons, dear, since I knew you first.” 

“Almost as well as a sister, Ursula?” queried 
Anna, with strange earnestness. 


At Allanton Road. 


217 


“ What a strange question, Anna ! Why do you 
ask it ?” 

“Because some day, perhaps, I may be your 
sister,” Anna whispered, with an exquisite blush. 
Then she ran out of the room, leaving Ursula 
dumbfoundered with amazement. 

Anna’s words could have but one meaning, of 
course ; yet Ursula could hardly believe it possible 
that Robert should have won their sweet Saint 
Annal 



CHAPTER XVII. 

SAINT ANNA. 

HE convalescence was a tedious business, 
yet that sick-room in Allanton Road 
became a dear and pleasant place to 
Tom and Ursula, ay, and to Robert also. There 
were many long talks between the invalid and his 
dear sister, and many new resolutions were formed 
which Tom would keep by-and-by, when he went 
back to his labours again. He confessed to Ursula 
many mistakes, many slips, much shirking of duty, 
much carelessness and heedlessness, which had 
occasioned annoyance both to his employers and 
his fellows in the warehouse, but which, with God’s 
help, would be ended now for ever. 

“I’m going back a man, Ursula,” he said, “to 
work in real earnest now, and you will be proud of 
me yet.” 

Dr. Raymond ordered a month’s rest at Kes- 

3i8 



Saint Anna, 


219 


sington Grange before he resumed work. Tom 
would have rebelled, but Ursula went personally 
to the Messrs. Grimsby, explained the whole 
matter, and brought Tom such a satisfactory 
answer, that he grew content, and began to look 
forward eagerly to going home. It was not until 
Tom was able to appear in the sitting-room once 
more that Ursula found time to go round to 
Parkside Crescent. Anna had never called again, 
and somehow though the subject was always in 
Ursula’s mind, and often on her lips, she could 
not bring herself to mention it to Robert. One 
evening after Robert came in, Ursula put on her 
cloak and hat and went off, telling him to see 
Tom safely in bed, and then come round for her. 
Miss Trent was at home, the maid said, and 
ushered her at once up to the drawing-room, 
from whence echoed the tones of a manly voice 
singing a sea-song to a pianoforte accompaniment. 
It ceased, however, when the visitor was announced, 
and Anna rose from the piano to welcome her 
friend. Then she introduced her two sailor brothers 
— fine, handsome lads, bearing on their faces traces 
of exposure to the elements at sea. They were frank 
and hearty of manner, glib of speech, and void of 
shyness, so in a few minutes Ursula was perfectly 


220 


Ursula Vivian. 


at home, and talking as if she had known them for 
years. 

“ Papa and mamma are downstairs,” said Anna, 
by-and-by. “ Mamma never comes to the drawing- 
room, so you will need to come down to her, 
Ursula.” 

“Just in a minute, Anna,” said Ursula, who 
had grown intensely interested in George Trent’s 
graphic description of a narrow escape the Bos- 
phorus had had in a gale off the Pacific coast. 

“ What a life ! How I should like it !” exclaimed 
she, when the recital was finished. “ I would give 
a world to see what you have seen, to experience a 
little of what you have told me.” 

“Two or three months* spell of it would 
change your opinion,” said Willie Trent. “ There’s 
mamma’s bell, so we’ll need to go down, I suppose.” 

Ursula was full of eager curiosity about Captain 
Trent. She had pictured him often in her mind’s 
eye, and he was not unlike the picture she had 
drawn. He had a fine face — one which inspired 
trust in every man, woman and child who beheld 
it. It was bronzed and weather-beaten, of course, 
and the blue eyes, so like Anna’s, could almost 
read one’s very soul. His manner was gentle for 
one accustomed to a rough life, but it was hearty. 


Saint Anna, 


221 


Ursula’s fingers tingled with the grip he gave her 
hand. 

"How are you, my dear? Glad to see you. 
I’ve heard so much about you, you know, from 
this girl of mine.” 

Ursula made a frank and hearty answer, then 
turned to the querulous invalid on the sofa. It 
might have been imagined that the presence of 
all her dear ones might have stilled Mrs. Trent’s 
fretful murmurs for a time, but it was not so. 
She was still the martyr, suffering unkindness 
from all those about her. Ursula marvelled at 
their patience with her. It was a touching thing 
to see Captain Trent’s tender chivalrous forbear- 
ance with his ailing wife, more touching even than 
Anna’s gentleness. Once Ursula saw George 
Trent turn aside biting his lip, as some more than 
usually trying speech fell from his, mother’s lips. 

" You see your fears about the Bosphorns were 
unfounded, Mrs. Trent,” said Ursula, cheerfully. 

"Yes; God heard the prayers of his poor 
suffering one, Miss Vivian,” returned Mrs. Trent. 
" But some day the blow will fall, and I shall be 
left a desolate widow alone in a strange land.” 

"Oh, nonsense, Emma,” said Captain Trent, 
briskly. "The Bosphorus has weathered many 


222 


Ursula Vivian, 


a tough gale, and will weather many more yet, 
please God.” 

Mrs. Trent waved her hand in deprecation. 

“Your loud speaking grates upon my nerves, 
William. Please remember you are not shout- 
ing to your sailors. I hate to appear even to be 
thinking of myself, Miss Vivian,” she added, 
turning to Ursula. “But if my nerves are upset 
in the slightest degree it means a sleepless night. 
Is Tom quite strong now ? and is Robert coming 
round to-night ?” 

“Tom is keeping better, thanks,” said Ursula, 
with just a little stiffness. “And Robert will be 
round in a little while. There he is, I fancy.” 

Yes, it was Robert Vivian’s knock, and Ursula 
was quick to note how Anna stole out of the room 
at once. Had she been out in the hall she would 
have been considerably amazed, for Robert Vivian 
took Anna in his arms as if he had a perfect right 
to do so, and bending his face close down to hers, 
whispered, “My darling!” And Anna did not 
demur, but looked, indeed, as if she found it very 
sweet. Ursula looked at Captain Trent when the 
pair entered the dining-room, and saw from the 
unmistakable twinkle in his eye that he had a 
good guess at the state of affairs. Robert Vivian 


Saint Anna, 


223 


looked very much at home by Mrs. Trent’s sofa. 
Ursula fancied he had been there oftener than she 
had suspected. While he was talking to Mrs. 
Trent, Ursula turned for a word with Captain 
Trent about Fred. 

" How old is he ?” was the captain’s first 
question. 

“ Fourteen. He cannot leave school for a couple 
of years yet,” answered Ursula. “ But you would 
advise me to let him follow the bent of his inclina- 
tion, Captain Trent ?” 

“ Certainly, certainly ; unless he is a born sailor, 
a month on salt water will be his best cure. 
When his school days are over, Miss Ursula, send 
him to me, and I’ll take him a trial trip in the 
Bosphorus y after which I’ll either send him home 
to you tired of his fancy for the sea, or else make 
a sailor of him, something like these lads there.” 

He turned his eyes fondly and proudly on his 
two stalwart sons, who were indeed such as any 
man might be proud of. 

“Thank you, oh thank you. Captain Trent,” 
said Ursula, with quick gratitude. “ If Fred was 
with you I should have no fear.” 

“No need of thanks, my dear,” said the captain, 
in his hearty way. “If old signs speak truly,” 


224 


Ursula Vivian. 


he added, lowering his voice and glancing towards 
Robert and Anna, who were now standing together 
in the window, “you and I shall be nearer and 
better acquainted yet.” 

Ursula smiled. 

“I had no idea of this. Captain Trent,” said 
Ursula, with a rippling smile. “ But it is a great 
joy to me that it is so.” 

“Miss Vivian, won’t you come and talk to 
me,” said Mrs. Trent querulously. “ I know I 
am not very entertaining company, but it is 
painful to be excluded from general conversa- 
tion.” 

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trent,” said Ursula, 
and moved on to the sofa at once to listen with 
what patience she might to the invalid’s selfish, 
complaining talk of all her troubles. 

The evening sped quickly, and immediately 
after supper Ursula rose, saying they must go, 
for unless Tom was asleep the time would seem 
long to him. 

Up in the bedroom Ursula shut the door, and 
laying her two hands on Anna’s shoulders, turned 
her face to the light. 

“Anna, is it possible?” she said, in a queer, 
astonished way. 


Saint Anna, 


225 


“What, Ursula?” asked Anna, but the blush 
told that she understood her friend’s meaning 
well enough. 

“ Ah, you know nicely, Anna. Is it true I am 
to have you for a sister?” 

“ Robert has asked me to be his wife, Ursula,” 
said Anna, in a low, quiet way. “You are quite 
sure you are not vexed about it ?” 

“Vexed! my dear girl ; my only fear is lest he 
should not be worthy of you,” said Ursula, quickly. 
“ But if anybody can make him all he ought, you 
can, Anna.” 

“ He is all he ought to be,” said Anna, shyly. 
Then Ursula took her close to her heart, and bade 
God bless her for ever and ever, and Robert too. 
Ursula spoke truly. Anna’s was the one influence 
which could do all that was necessary for Robert 
Vivian, and already she had wrought that great 
change which Ursula had noted, but had not 
understood. When the brother and sister were 
out of doors they walked a little way in silence, 
which neither cared to break. 

“You understand how matters stand?” said 
Robert, by-and-by. 

“Yes, and I am very glad,” answered Ursula, 
and slipped her hand through her brother’s arm 
P 


226 


Ursula Vivian 


in sisterly confidence. “ I had no idea of such a 
thing, for you never hinted at it in your letters, 
Robert” 

“ I couldn’t do it, Ursula,” said Robert. “ And 
when you came I wanted to tell you about it, but 
I couldn’t, somehow.” 

“There are not many girls like Anna Trent in 
the world, Robert,” said Ursula, soberly. “You 
will need to be good to her.” 

“Do you think I could be anything else?” 
asked Robert, quickly. 

“No, but I have fancied sometimes that you 
were just a little hard of heart, Robert,” said 
Ursula, with sisterly candour. “The least cold- 
ness or harshness, though meaning nothing, would 
chill Anna to the heart. You will remember that 
when she is your wife, Robert ?” 

“His wife!” How sweet the word rang in his 
ear and heart. For a moment he did not answer. 

“ She has taught me many things, Ursula,” said 
he, at length. “ She has made a new man of me 
with her sweet love and faith. God forbid that I 
should ever forget it.” 

Ursula was silent in the intensity of her thank- 
fulness to hea/ such words from Robert’s lips. 

“ I have not been all I should have been in time 


Saint Anna. 


227 


past, Ursula; but life has been hard for me. 
None of the sweet influences of home have 
crossed my path. I went my way alone, and 
grew soured and hard, I suppose, and got to think 
that money and position were all worth living and 
working for. Anna has taught me differently, and 
with her help there will be a new life begun, with 
a higher aim in view.” 

“ She was Saint Anna at Aldborough, Robert,” 
said Ursula, through her tears. “ She will be four 
Saint Anna henceforth — ^yours and ours. God 
bless her !” 

“Ay, God bless her; and fou^ Ursula,” said 
Robert Vivian, pausing at the door, and taking 
his sister to his heart for the first time within her 
recollection. “ You began the work that sad week 
I spent at home with you, and between you, you 
have helped me a little nearer Heaven. So God 
bless you both, Ursula, I say, and make me 
worthy of such a sister and such a wifel” 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

NOT QUITE PERFECT. 

FEW days later Ursula took the invalid 
home. Tom was like a child in the 
exuberance of his delight at being home 
once more, and again, as of yore, Kessington 
Grange rang with his merry whistle, for the very 
air of home seemed to do all that was required in 
the way of restoration in a very little while. 
When Christmas came Tom had still a week of his 
month’s leave of absence to run, and as the day of 
Mary Dunscombe’s coming was fixed, and Robert 
wrote to say that he would be down for a day or 
two, it was likely to be a pleasant Christmas in all 
ways for the Vivians. Ursula had a house-cleaning 
before Mary came, and a little of her previous 
earnings went towards buying new curtains for the 
dining-room, and one or two other things to 
improve the interior of the Grange for Mary’s 

328 




Not Quite Perfect, 


229 


housewifely eyes. Ursula’s hands were very busy 
for a time, but the results repaid the labour, and on 
the afternoon on which Mary was expected Ursula 
went round her domain thoroughly satisfied with 
its appearance. It was a touch of womanly pride 
which some would scarcely have expected in Miss 
Vivian, but, as I think I have said before, her 
character was many-sided. Mary was much sur 
prised that night when she entered Kessington 
Grange. A great fire crackled in the high brass 
grate in the dining-room, casting a ruddy glow 
on the handsome, sombre room, and making a 
thousand little lights on the china and old- 
fashioned silver of Ursula’s well-appointed tea- 
table. 

‘*0 Ursula, how nice! What a dear cosy 
room! What a lovely old house!” she exclaimed, 
all in a breath, before she got out of her furs. 
“ It is like a story just to look at it” 

Ursula looked pleased. 

“I am glad you like my home, Mary,” she 
answered quietly, “because it is very dear to 
me. 

The boys were shy with the pretty young 
lady from the southern coast only for a very 
few minutes. Before tea was half over Tom 


230 


Ursula Vivian, 


was interesting her with a detailed account of 
his surgery upon a broken-legged hen, at which 
she laughed so heartily that Tom was quite 
charmed with her. 

“Say, Ursula, she’s a treasure,” he found time 
to whisper on the sly. “And so pretty! Wait 
till Sunday, all the fellows in St. Michael’s will 
lose their heads.” 

“O Tom, what nonsense!” said Ursula, re- 
provingly. But it was no use. Tom would 
give vent to utterances like these in spite of all 
her remonstrances. He was indeed incorrigible. 

“Can you skate, Miss Dunscombe?” he in- 
quired by-and-by. 

“Yes,” answered Mary promptly; “and I brought 
my skates too.' Is there a pond ?” 

“ I rather think there is ; we’ve a miniature 
sea on Kessington Common. I’ll try you a race 
on it to-morrow morning, if you like. I don’t 
get cut at nights, you see.” 

“ All right,” said Mary ; “ I once won a prize 
for skating, Tom, so you will need to be on your 
mettle.” 

Tom gazed upon her with renewed admiration. 
He had rather dreaded her coming, picturing 
a different being from this winsome maiden 


Not Quite Perfect, 


231 


with the laughing eyes and frank, delightful 
manner. 

“ I’m jolly glad you’ve come, any way,” he said, 
with perfect sincerity. “I’ll go and rub up my 
skates. The ice wasn’t very good to-day, but 
it’ll be prime to-morrow.” 

After the boys went to bed the two girls drew 
their chairs closer to the fire, and sat far into the 
night talking. One thing Ursula had noted — a 
flashing gem on Mary’s left hand, the meaning 
of which she desired to be told. Very soon it 
all came out. Leaning her head on her hands, 
Mary began — 

“ I have passed through a good deal since you 
were at Sunnybeach, Ursula. I seemed to have 
lived years in a few months. Not long aftei 
you left us Isabel’s brother began to come so 
often to our house that I could not be blind 
to his object. I thought it all out before it 
came to a crisis. I looked at it in all ways, 
and my mind was made up. I can tell you 
all this frankly, Ursula, because you arc my 
friend. I knew Gilbert loved me, that he wanted 
me for his wife, and though I loved him, there 
could be nothing between us. I have always 
thought that unequal marriages turn out un- 


232 


Ursula Vivian, 


happily, except in rare instances ; and, of course, 
a marriage between the Squire of Haydon Hall 
and the doctor’s sister would be an unequal 
one; besides, I know that Mrs. Fortescue and 
Isabel would oppose it to the bitter end. They 
showed me that, indeed, when the thing began 
to be talked of, for you know how gossip spreads 
in country places. I tried to avoid Gilbert, to 
be cold and distant to him ; but, Ursula, it was 
no use. He was a man, you' see, with a man’s 
right and determination to woo and win, if he 
could, the woman he loved. Well, when he spoke I 
could not refuse to listen, for I was only a woman, 
Ursula, and I loved him very dearly. He knew I 
loved him— I could not hide it ; but when I tried 
to say there must never be anything between us, 
he just laughed, Ursula, and by-and-by said I was 
the wife given to him by God, and that no man or 
woman could come between us now, no matter 
what the consequences. But I was firm, Ursula ; I 
would make no promise. I said there must be no 
engagement without the consent of his relatives, 
and that I would enter no family against their will. 
He said he had no fear, that they would welcome 
me, but I knew better than that. Next day, 
however, his father came to Beach House and 


Not Quite Perfect 


233 


asked for me. O Ursula, how good he was! He 
said he loved me very much, and that it would be 
a great happiness to see me*Gilbert’s wife ; and he 
said, too, that Mrs. Fortescue would, by-and-by, 
think the same. From that I gathered that there 
had been a storm at Haydon Hall ; and, whether it 
was pride or not, Ursula, I said I would make no 
promise till Gilbert’s mother came to see me, and 
told me she had no objections to the engagement. 
I don’t know what passed at the Hall, Ursula, but 
it was weeks before Mrs. Fortescue came.” 

“She did come, then,” exclaimed Ursula, in 
breathless interest. 

“Yes. O Ursula, I wish you could have seen 
us in the drawing-room that morning ! She was as 
cold as ice, and just touched my cheek with her 
lips, and then said, as if she had schooled herself 
to say it, ‘ Since you are to be my son’s wife, we 
must be friends, Mary ;’ then she sat down. We 
talked a little about the weather, I think, for I did 
not know what I was saying; then she kissed me 
again, and went away. It was not very satisfactory, 
but she had come; so I was obliged to pledge 
myself to Gilbert and put his ring upon my finger.” 

“And you are happy?” queried Ursula. 

“ Happy I” echoed Mary, with a deep, tender 


234 


Ursula Vivian, 


light in her lustrous eyes ; ** so happy, I can do 
nothing but thank God all the time, Ursula ; so 
happy, that I dare not fret because there is a little 
jar upon the harmony. There must always be 
something. I think no earthly joy can be quite -- 
perfect.” 

Ursula sat silent a little while, and into her mind 
there crept Miss Proctor’s exquisite lines : 

“ I thank Thee more that all our joy 
Is touched with pain ; 

That shadows fall on brightest hours, 

That thorns remain ; 

So that earth’s bliss may be our guide, 

And not our chain. ” 

“ Every day I live, Mary,” she said, with a far- 
away shining look in her eyes, “ I wonder more 
and more at the beauty and the infinite wisdom of 
God's leading. All things for good — that is how 
He deals with His children ; and believing, knowing 
that, even pain is sweet from His hand.” 

Surely Ursula’s sorrow had been sanctified, 
indeed, when she could speak such words from the 
very heart. 

For such blessed ends is sorrow sent : to teach 
us our weakness, our dependence upon our Father, 
to send us ever upward and heavenward for all we 
need. 


ISJot Quite Perfect, 


235 


To continue in Miss Proctor’s words — 

“For Thou who knowest, Lord, how soon 
Our weak heart clings, 

Hast given us joys, tender and true, 

Yet all with wings; 

So that we seej gleaming on high, 

Diviner things.” 

And in Heaven all dark places will be made 
light ; all mysteries, mercifully veiled below, will be 
explained away for ever; every “wherefore” will be 
answered ; all the agonies of earth forgotten ; all 
its weariness ended ; its heartache exchanged for 
joy and rest which shall endure for evermore. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

CHRISTMAS AT HOME. 

Christmas Eve Ursula and Mary were 
sitting together in the dining-room. 
They were alone in the house, the boys 
being at the skating. The table was set for tea, 
and the cosy room, lit by the ruddy glow from the 
fire, presented a pretty picture. So did the two 
figures on the hearth. Mary, with her sunny head 
and winsome face, reclined on the hearthrug at 
Ursula’s feet, regardless of crumpling her silver- 
grey gown, with its trimmings of white lace. 
Ursula was leaning back in her chair, her face 
wearing an expression of perfect rest. It was a 
beautiful face now — the face of a woman worthy 
the name — a face which many a one in and out 
of Kessington thought the sweetest in the world. 
Her perfectly-fitting black dress was relieved by 
soft frilling at throat and wrists, and in lieu of 
other adornment she wore a single blossom of a 
bright red geranium, which became her rarely well. 

836 




Christmas at Home, 


237 


“ I wish the boys would come,” she said, sitting 
up when the clock rang six ; “ I am afraid Robert 
will not be till the last train.” 

At that moment the opening of a door and a 
great hubbub in the hall caused her to spring up 
and hurry out. 

There they all were — Robert, GeofTrey, Fred, 
Charlie, and one more unexpected guest. Dr. 
Dunscombe. 

“John !” exclaimed Mary, “what on earth brings 
you here to-night ?” Recovering from her intense 
amazement, Ursula went forward to welcome her 
guest. 

“You are very welcome to Kessington Grange, 
Dr. Dunscombe,” she said, with exquisite grace; 
adding, with a little laugh, “ even though you have 
stolen a march upon us.” 

“Thank you. Miss Vivian,” returned the doctor, 
taking the offered hand in a firm, strong pressure. 
“ I found Christmas at home alone was going to 
prove too much for me, so I came off, risking the 
chance of being crowded out by others.” 

“Oh, we have room enough and to spare,” 
laughed Ursula ; then there followed such a string 
of introductions, during which it transpired that 
the doctor and Robert Vivian had travelled in the 


238 


Ursula Vivian, 


same compartment from London, and had even 
walked almost close together from Kessington 
without speaking, and it was only when both 
turned in at the Grange gates that they became 
known to each other. 

What a hearty, happy, pleasant tea-drinking 
that was ! Ursula was its presiding genius. She 
attended to everybody’s wants, and had a word 
and a smile for them all. Dr. Dunscombe found 
it best for his peace of mind to keep his eyes away 
from her altogether. 

Robert and she got into a very friendly talk, 
while Tom gave Mary a glowing account of his 
feats on the ice that day, and challenged her to a 
race next day. 

After tea they adjourned to the drawing-room, 
and at Ursula’s request Geoffrey laid aside his 
shyness before strangers, and played for them. 
While he did so all talk was stilled, and Dr. 
Dunscombe sat with his eyes fixed on Geoffrey’s 
face, his face wearing almost as rapt an expression 
as the player’s own. It was a wondrous, exquisite, 
heart-touching melody, such as could only be 
brought forth by a master-hand. It seemed to 
still all worldly or selfish thoughts, and to infuse 
some measure of the broad, loving, unselfish 


Christmas at Home, 


239 


Christmas spirit into the hearts of those who 
listened. All felt the better for it, and none 
wondered to see Geoffrey steal away, with his eyes 
full of tears, when he had finished, guessing his 
very being was stirred. 

“Miss Vivian, I seem to be dreaming,” said 
Dr. Dunscombe, almost breathlessly. “ I never 
heard anything like it in my life. Your brother is 
undoubtedly a genius ; I trust he will make music 
his profession.” 

“Yes,” answered Ursula, with sisterly pride; 
“you will hear him with better advantage in 
church to-morrow morning. He is organist of 
St. Michael’s.” 

“Indeed!” exclaimed the doctor in surprise. 
Then the talk drifted into the world of music, litera- 
ture and arts, and the hours sped like moments. 

Surely a pleasanter Christmas Eve had never 
been spent in Kessington Grange for years. 

Next morning the whole household walked 
together across the crisp, whitened fields to the 
Christmas service at St. Michael’s. The church was 
full, as usual, and in the Derrington pew Ursula 
saw the great Herr Baerstein sitting beside the 
countess, and leaning in the direction of the young 
organist, whose musical genius had already been 


240 


Ursula Vivian, 


heard of far beyond the limits of Kessington. It 
was the first time Robert Vivian had heard his 
brother play in public, and, though he knew nothing 
about music, he felt his being stirred as the sweet, 
grand strains filled all the building, holding the 
worshippers spell-bound. 

The Abbots were all in their pew. One swift 
glance Ursula had cast towards it when she first 
entered the church, perhaps to see whether 
Laurence had come down from Rugby to spend 
Christmas at home. His eyes met hers, and she 
turned her head swiftly away and put up her hand 
to hide the blush, but he saw it for all that. 

Never in her life had Ursula’s thanksgiving been 
so passionately sincere as it was that morning. 
There was so much, oh, so much, to be grateful 
for! so many blessings she could not enumerate 
them. Her eyes grew moist and tender as her 
heart re-echoed the beautiful words of Mr. 
Gresham’s prayer, and as she knelt she took upon 
herself her vows of service for another year, and 
craved a blessing upon that service. 

After the service Ursula left Mary a few minutes 
at the church door while she went for a word with 
Lady Derrington. In full view of all Kessington 
her ladyship leaned out of her carriage and kissed 


Christmas at Home, 


241 


Miss Vivian, then introduced her to the great 
composer by her side. 

“ We may steal your brother for to-day, I sup- 
pose, my dear,” she said, pleasantly. “ I see you have 
friends, or I should insist upon your coming too. 
You have deserted Averham of late. Why so?” 

"I have so much to do — so many cares, dear 
Lady Derrington,” returned Ursula. " I have just 
returned from a two months* sojourn in London, 
where I was nursing one of my brothers through 
fever.’* 

“ My dear, you fill your trying position in a way 
which makes every one reverence you,” said her 
ladyship warmly. “ God bless you, and make the 
many cares very sweet. Well, good-morning. You 
will come when you can to Averham, remember- 
ing there is always a welcome for you there ?” 

“Thank you,” said Ursula, simply; and there 
was no need of any more. 

“ Here comes Geoffrey,” said her ladyship, and 
made room for him beside her, and Ursula went 
back to her friends. The Abbots had joined 
Robert and the rest in the porch, and Ursula shook 
hands with them both, but did not choose to meet 
Laurence’s eyes again. 

“Won’t you all come up and dine with us, 
Q 


242 


Ursula Vivian, 


Ursula?” asked Agnes. “Then we could go 
skating afterwards.” 

“ Mrs. Abbot would be rather taken aback at such 
a large invasion,” laughed Ursula. “ Suppose you 
and your brother come and eat my Christmas 
dinner instead. Then we can go skating, and take 
tea with you.” 

“Very well,” said Agnes, nothing loth. Then 
Laurence took several long strides after his father 
and mother to announce the programme. 

Ursula’s Christmas dinner was a great success ; 
and Mary took care to inform the company that 
she had made it all with her own hands, which 
occasioned quite a number of compliments to be 
showered upon her, much to her discomfiture. 

To see Ursula here in her own home, its light 
and centre, guiding her household with gentle, 
womanly hands, was a new and deeper revelation 
of her to Dr. Dunscombe. If he had loved her 
before, he loved her ten thousand times better now, 
for here he saw the sweetest, most exquisite side 
of her character. His mind was made up. He 
would speak before he left Kessington on the 
morrow. He would place his happiness in her 
hands, believing she would give him a true and 
sincere answer at once. 


Christmas at Home, 


243 


It was not an easy thing to get a private word 
with Ursula. Everybody wanted her, and she was 
never a moment alone or unoccupied. But later 
on, when they were assembled on the loch. Dr. 
Dunscombe’s opportunity cama He asked her to 
skate with him right round the loch. And away 
at the furthest end, where they were hidden from 
observation by the trees, he stood still and looked 
at her. There was no mistaking that look. Meet- 
ing it, Ursula knew what was coming, and would 
have flown, but he detained her. 

“Just one moment, Ursula,” said Dr. Dunscombe, 
in a manner strangely hurried for one who was at 
all times so self-possessed. “ You must know what 
brought me to Kessington. I must leave to-morrow, 
and I cannot go without risking my happiness. I 
love you as I have never loved woman before. I 
know I am unworthy, but will you give me a chance?” 

Ursula looked genuinely distressed. She had 
no great liking for Dr. Dunscombe, but he was so 
evidently in earnest that she could not but be 
sorry for him. 

“ O Dr. Dunscombe ! I am very sorry, but I can- 
not,” she said, almost piteously. “ Let us go back.” 

“You cannot?” he repeated slowly. “Then I 
have no chance ?” 


244 


Ursula Vivian. 


“ Oh no. I hate to give pain, but it is far better 
to be frank at once,” said Ursula, in a gentle, 
womanly way. " I had no idea of this. I am very 
sorry, but it can never be.” 

" Perhaps when you have known me longer, Ur- 
sula,” he began, eagerly; but Ursula shook her head 
so decidedly that he saw she was in dead earnest. 

“ Some one else has been before me, I fancy,” he 
said, gloomily. Then Ursula, flushing deep crim- 
son, very deliberately turned upon her skates and 
sped off to join the rest. 

By-and-by Laurence Abbot came up to her and 
took her by the arm. 

“ I say, Ursula, I haven’t had a word with you 
to-day, he said, his grey eyes looking keenly down 
upon her flushed face. “What has that Dunscombe 
fellow been saying to you? He has no right to 
say things to you, mind I” 

“ Go away, Laurence Abbot,” said Ursula, sharply, 
“or I shall say something I shall be sorry for. I 
am very cross, and I don’t want you talking non- 
sense just now.” 

“ All right, madam, I’ll obey,” he said, merrily. 
Then bending his manly head he uttered another 
daring word — very low, but Ursula heard it, 
darling I” 



CHAPTER XX. 

THE CROWNING JOY. 

RSULA’S literary work was falling in 
arrears, but after the departure of all 
the guests, after Tom went back strong 
and well to business, and life flowed on again in 
its even tenor at the Grange, she took up her pen 
again with renewed vigour. She had done very 
well, and was likely to do better, in the path she 
had chosen. Her name was beginning to be well 
known among literary people, and her stories were 
beginning to be asked for. That, of course, meant 
money in Ursula’s pocket. In the course of that 
year she paid off the remaining portion of her debt 
to Robert, in spite of his strong protest against it. 
The next thing to save for was Charles’s univer- 
sity course. The lad’s mind seemed to be set 
upon the university, and he was becoming every 
day more earnest, studious and thoughtful. In 

*45 



246 


Ursula Vivian. 


the midst of her great thankfulness, Ursula’s eyes 
would fill sometimes at tffe thought of what a joy 
it would have been to her mother’s heart could 
she but have lived to see such days at Kessington ^ 
Grange ; but up yonder she knew all, and Ursula 
was content. 

In the course of that year, also one of changes 
for the Vivians, Robert and Anna Trent were 
married. Yes, sweet Saint Anna became Ursula’s 
sister indeed; and surely never was sister more 
warmly welcome, more dearly beloved, than she! 
As it was impossible that Mrs. Trent should live 
alone — and not advisable for many reasons thaf, 
during the absence of her husband and sons, she 
should make her home with the young couple — 
Captain Trent gave up the Bosphorus to his lads, 
and purchased a house at Gravesend, whither he 
retired with his wife, to make the best of a lands- 
man’s life, and live, in dreams, the stirring days he 
had spent upon the main. 

The change wrought in Robert Vivian by his 
sweet, gentle, unselfish wife, was marvellous to 
see. The old, hard, selfish life, was indeed done 
with for evermore, and a newer, nobler, Christian 
one begun. Hand in hand they walked the path 
of Christian duty, doing good in season and out 


The Crowning Joy, 


247 


of season, for the Lord’s sake. And they were 
happy — aye happy — and their home was a haven 
of rest and peace for the dear mother-sister 
toiling among her boys, when she grew weary 
sometimes, and, like a tired bird, flew to them 
for rest. 

So the year went by, and another dawned upon 
the Vivians, to find them well and busy and 
happy, each and all with their separate duties and 
pursuits. That New Year’s afternoon Ursula 
went to Kessington Mount to call for Mrs. Abbot, 
who had been ailing for some time. Agnes went 
out, but Laurence was sitting by his mother’s 
couch, and after his brief visit was past, as a 
matter of course, took her home. They did not 
speak much on the way ; perhaps there was no 
need. Laurence had never yet spoken to her 
of the subject nearest his heart, because, knowing 
her position, he dared not ask her to leave all for 
him. But each visit to Kessington, each time he 
saw her, made it all the harder for him to be 
silent, even although he knew perfectly well that 
Ursula knew he loved her. 

" Life is full of change,” said Ursula, when they 
had left the town behind, and were walking slowly 
along the quiet road, in the sober, January twilight; 


248 


Urstila Vivian, 


“ and time flies so quickly, we can scarcely grasp 
all that happens while it is flying.’* 

“ How long is it since you left school, Ursula ?” 

“ It will be four years when next summer comes,” 
answered Ursula, and an unbidden tear trembled 
on her eyelash. “ It seems very long, and yet 
very short ; but a great deal has happened in these 
years.” 

“Yes; and during these four years, Ursula, you 
have done as much as many women do in a life- 
time.” 

“My work was laid out for me, Laurence,” 
answered Ursula, very quietly. “And I could 
not pass it by. I thank God for strength given 
to do even what I have done.” 

“You are a great and noble woman, Ursula,” 
said Laurence. “ Your life is a living lesson to all 
who know you.” 

Ursula laid a pleading hand on his arm. 

“ Oh, hush !” she said, humbly and entreatingly ; 
“ don’t speak like that ; it is not like you. Let us 
talk of something else. Did Agnes tell you Fred 
goes to sea in March, and Charlie to Oxford after 
the summer recess ?” 

“ Yes, I heard both these items of interest, and 
my heart was sore for you, Ursula.” 


The Crowning Joy, 


249 


“ My family is breaking up, you see,” she said, 
trying to speak bravely. “There will be only 
Geoffrey and me left at the Grange. I shall have 
plenty of time to sit round in a trailing frock, ink- 
ing my fingers, as Tom used to say in the first 
days of my authorship.” 

“You will be very lonely, Ursula. Your many 
cares are slipping away from you. The dear lads 
will grow up and make ties for themselves. Very 
soon Geoffrey will be off after Aarons to Leipsic, 
and then — ” 

He stood still, and looked at Ursula till she was 
obliged to turn her face to his. The time for him 
to speak had come now, and Ursula no longer 
wished to stem his words. 

“Then Ursula, my darling, will you come to 
me ?” he asked, earnestly and passionately ; his eyes 
fixed hungrily on the grave, beautiful, womanly 
face, which had indeed fulfilled all the promise of 
its early youth. 

Ursula stood very still a moment, just thinking 
a little of all her answer would involve. Then she 
lifted her eyes to his face, and answered very simply, 
but without a shadow of doubt or hesitating — 

“Yes, Laurence, when that time comes I will 
very gladly come to you.” 


250 


Ursula Vivian, 


“You do care for me, Ursula?” asked Laurence, 
not content even with that assurance. 

“Care for you!” repeated Ursula, slowly, as if 
marvelling a little at the words. “Why do you 
ask me that ? You know very well, 1 think, that 1 
have loved you all the time.” 


“ Suppose we move on a little now, as it is quite 
dark, and past tea-time,” said Ursula, by-and-by. 

“All right, my dearest. Just tell me once more 
that you care for me, and I shall take you home.” 

“.Indeed I shall tell you no more,” returned Ursula, 
with an odd mixture of shyness and sauciness in 
her voice. “ And seeing that we shall have to wait 
years and years, perhaps till we are grey, there is 
no use saying any more about it.” 

“Do you think so?” queried Laurence. “Let 
me tell you I have no intention of waiting for my 
wife till / am grey, unless indeed your behaviour 
should turn it white in a single night.” 

Ursula laughed, and, laying her hand on his arm, 
they walked on again to the Grange. 

“ You must listen to reason, Laurence,” she said. 
“ I cannot break up the home here and go away 
with you to Rugby. What would become of 


The Crowning Joy, 


251 


Geoffrey and of Charlie at holiday time, and of 
Fred when he came ashore ?” 

“Your arguments are irresistible, Ursula,” an- 
swered Laurence. “ I should be the last to ask 
you to do that, but there is another way out of the 
difficulty.” 

Ursula’s eyes asked the question which her lips 
did not. 

“My father is talking of resigning, Ursula, and 
the post is mine if I like to take it. Would you 
marry the Rector of Kessington Grammar School?” 

“ Perhaps I would,” said Ursula, and he saw how 
her eyes were shining. 

“And if you desired it very much, Ursula, we 
could make the Grange our home, upon certain con- 
ditions which will be discussed hereafter, and then 
the boys would have the old home to come to at all 
times. Would that please my darling, I wonder ?” 

Ursula’s eyes overflowed, and with one of her 
rare impulses she turned to him very suddenly and 
laid her head on his breast. 

“O Laurence, I am so happy, I don’t know 
what to do ; indeed I am so happy,” she said 
brokenly, and by-and-by he heard her whisper 
very low, 

“ Father, I thank Thee from my heart” 



CHAPTER XXL 


SUNRISE. 


INE more peep at the friends who have 
* gJ'own dear to me since I began this 
record of their lives — only one, and I 
have done. 

It was a midsummer night, and never had Kes- 
sington Grange been so full since the days when 
the Vivians had shone in county society. All 
the boys were at home that night. Geoffrey had 
travelled night and day from Leipsic to be in 
time; the Bosphorus had got into port the day 
before, and thus enabled Fred to be present ; Tom 
had got a couple of holidays for the occasion ; 
Charlie was free from Oxford ; Robert and Anna 
were there also with that wonderful baby, so dear 
to Aunt Ursula because it bore that precious name 
which was engraved on the head-stone in Kess- 
ington churchyard — Millicent Lucy Vivian. Mrs. 


Sunrise, 


253 


Trent had gone to her rest before the birth of 
her grandchild ; but Captain Trent and his 
two stalwart sons were Ursula’s guests that night, 
and also Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Fortescue, from 
Pine Trees Hall, Cheshire; for the young squire 
had won his wife, and in the meantime their 
abode would be upon his Cheshire estate, so long 
as the old Squire was hale and hearty in Haydon 
Hall. Ursula was hard put to it to find accom- 
modation for them all, but it was accomplished ; 
for it was her heart’s desire that all dear to her 
should sleep beneath her own roof-tree on the 
last night — ay, the last — for to-morrow was her 
wedding-day. And they were all there, thank 
God, an unbroken family circle, save that it was a 
headless one — yet not headless — oh, never that 
while Ursula lived ! 

There was a great noise in the house. Every- 
body seemed to be talking at once, and everybody 
seemed to be calling for Ursula ; but she had stolen 
away up to the little dressing-room, where lay the 
bridal robe she would wear upon the morrow. 
Just to be quiet a little, after all the bustle of the 
arrivals, and also to kneel down to thank God 
that, in His great mercy, not one should be wanting 
this night ; that all she loved would be with her on 


254 


Ursula Vivian, 


the morrow; yes, all, for would not the spirit of 
the angel mother hover near her beloved child on 
her wedding day ? 

She was not left very long in peace. Presently 
Tom’s noisy foot came upstairs, and he gave a 
smart knock at the door. 

“ Say, old woman, here’s Laurence junior, 
actually. Can he get in, or shall we hunt him off 
the premises? He’ll get you all to himself to- 
morrow, so he might have left you to us to- 
night.” 

Ursula opened the door and came out smiling. 

He is in ; I hear him speaking, I am afraid,” 
she said. “ Come down with me, and I’ll help you 
to eject him.” 

They went together downstairs, but Ursula 
lingered a little behind him, and entered the 
dining-room alone. They were all there, and 
Laurence was standing by the table doing his 
best to speak to them all at once. He turned to 
Ursula, and they shook hands very quietly, but 
those who were watching closely saw how beautiful 
was the look in Ursula’s eyes when she lifted them 
to the true, manly face of him who, ere to-morrow 
closed, would call her wife. 

“ Ursula’s going to put you out, Laurence,” said 


Sunrise. 


255 


Tom. “Do it now, Ursula ; you came down to do 
it, you know.” 

But Ursula only laughed, and sat down beside 
Mary, looking as if she had no such intention. 
Laurence did not stay long, and when he rose to 
go Ursula stole out, and was waiting in the porch 
for him, with a white shawl wrapped about her 
head. He drew the door behind him and took 
her to his heart. No need to write down what he 
said. There are some words which none may 
hear save those to whom they are spoken. 

“ I feel so humble and thankful to-night, 
Laurence,” said Ursula, after a while, “ in spite of 
my great happiness. I have been and am so 
unspeakably blessed, and I am so unworthy.” 

“Hush, my darling; you unworthy! What 
would all those we have just left say to that, 
I wonder?” said Laurence, half lightly, half 
earnestly. 

Not seeming to hear his words Ursula continued, 
leaning her head a little on his protecting arm. 

“ It is so strange that all my hopes should be 
fulfilled, all my prayers answered,” she said, very 
softly. “ Tom is exceeding my hope, and will be 
a successful business man sometime. Fred loves 
his profession, and will make something of it by- 


256 


Ursula Vivian. 


and-by. Charlie is all I could wish for. Geof- 
frey’s gift will bring him to fame and fortune. 
And, O Laurence, when I came downstairs to- 
night and looked upon so many dear ones, my 
heart was like to break for joy 1” 

Very closely Laurence drew his darling to his 
heart. 

“God has been very good to us, dearest. We 
shall never forget it, and with His help we may 
be able to do a little labour in His vineyard before 
the sunset.” 

“ Before the sunset,” repeated Ursula, dreamily. 
“Yes, Laurence, we will work together for Him 
for many years, please God, for it is only sunrise 
with us yet.” 

So at the sunrise we leave Ursula upon the 
threshold of a new life, knowing it will be full of 
sweetest human cares for her, and that, though 
griefs may mingle with the joys, she will bear 
them nobly in the strength of that Mighty Hand 
which hath so marvellously led her hitherto. 

Farewell I 


THE END. 



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